Before the Devil Knows You're Dead
by elemental mystique
Summary: Someone is targeting each of the CSIs, one by one, in the team. Will they find him before someone dies? R&R Please.
1. Prologue

He passed them every day. Each day in the halls, he couldn't go by the DNA lab or the trace lab without seeing one of that team.

Starting from the break room, he turned left and started to walk.

Sure enough, Warrick Brown brushed past him on the way to the DNA lab, likely to ask for a report from the lovely Mia Dickerson. That young black woman was a knockout as much as she was talented at churning out the results for cases.

Warrick nodded at him, barely registering his presence, when the CSI strode by and into the lab. The up-and-rising, sharp-as-tacks investigator had to have either the case or Mia on his brain, to ignore the man like that. Well, whatever it was, it had him steamed. The lanky ex-gambler had just been added to his list.

The next one to pass him was Sara Sidle. The pretty young brunette smiled and gave him a fleeting "Hi", a greeting that had to be generic but still acknowledged his presence. He smiled back and continued on, but the smile turned into a frown when he saw her enter Gil Grissom's office. It was so common knowledge to him that the two had a thing for each other. Now _that _made him mad. With her brains under that brown hair and her feminist personality, she was attractive in her own right. Every woman was. That meant that he owned them all. Whatever that was good and beautiful in this place belonged to _him. _

He would let it go for now. Maybe with time – and a little encouragement – she would see the error of her ways. Meanwhile, he had other plans for Grissom.

He strolled by as Nick Stokes emerged from the autopsy room. The handsome young CSI's mouth was set in a hard line, heroic jaw squared. Probably had disliked whatever he had seen in the autopsy room. The man himself had never gone into Dr. Al Robbins' lair – he wanted nothing to do with the dead. Al Robbins also freaked him out, what with those prosthetic stumps of his.

Nick Stokes nodded absently as he passed the man. The latter glanced back; seeing Nick squeeze the bridge of his classic nose between thumb and forefinger and then rub his right temple. So far the CSI hadn't done anything to raise his ire, although his youth and his empathy with victims and their families placed him squarely on this side of naïve. Plus his friends-to-all nature did irritate the man more than just slightly.

Well, maybe he could give the boy a proper reeducation when he had the time.

Sofia Curtis hurried by with Captain Jim Brass, the former looking back at the man curiously. Her long, wispy blond hair floated around her head like a halo, her blue eyes searching but not suspicious. Although her beauty could almost rival Catherine's, she used to be formerly acquainted with Conrad Ecklie. The man now shuddered. That was her sin. He despised Ecklie's way of kissing butt and backstabbing. The guy wouldn't be out of place in a corporate setting – or among the vultures in Africa. Reminding himself to place Ecklie on his list as well, he mentally contemplated Sofia for a few more minutes. When he had his way with her, he would most likely take the time to correct her too. After all, mistakes had to be rectified.

Ah, here came Greg Sanders, on his way to the trace lab. The kid's unruly blond-highlighted brown hair remained firmly gelled on his head, his pretty-boy face pensive as he kept his eyes glued to a file. As he walked blindly into the lab where the hawk-eyed, sharp-tongued Hodges waited, Greg completely disregarded the man he passed.

Warrick and Nick looking over his head he could get, although he wasn't going to let it go. No sirree. But Grissom's starry-eyed protégé, ignoring him? Even though he knew that the boy was forever in his own world, the very thought of an insect ignoring a god was offensive. Moreover, the kid was open to the group's pampering just because he was the youngest. What sort of bias was that but in the highest form? Greg Sanders had better make up a will while he still could.

Catherine Willows sashayed round the corner, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. Pretending casualness he didn't feel, he greeted her briefly as he strode by. Her full lips curled into a smile that she tossed at him, her blue eyes glowing. When she moved, her strawberry-blonde hair and shapely body swayed and dipped with her. The very sight to him was an aphrodisiac.

Oh, for a moment where he could be alone with her. He was sure it wouldn't be an experience where he – or she – would forget any time soon.

Last in line but top on his list came Gil Grissom, as the man completed the 360-degree circuit and moved past the supervisor's office. The endless jars and containers of shriveled rodents and pickled critters and creepy-crawlies fascinated him, though he would never tell Grissom so. Gil Grissom seemed to have a bizarre interest in death, a fact that the man respected, but his free rein with his team and his holier-than-thou attitude were thorns in the man's side. Besides, as their supervisor he controlled them all; without Grissom in the picture they were _his _for the taking.

Naturally, the CSI maverick never looked up, writing something furiously on paper and surveying some artifact or other. The salt in his salt-and-pepper beard and hair seemed to have increased, not that Sara Sidle or Sofia Curtis seemed to care. Warrick and Nick respected and covered for him, Catherine was Grissom's right hand and close confidante, and Greg practically worshipped the ground the man walked on. Exaggeratedly, of course – for now. Bobby Dawson, Archie Kao, Mia Dickerson and the other lab techs all stood in awe of Grissom as well. That was the problem – and the solution. Once Grissom was out of the way, all eyes would shift to the man instead.

And if that didn't happen, well, he would have to teach them who the boss was.

The first on his list? He headed for the exit, humming a tuneless melody.

That was for him to know…and for them to find out.

The devil collecting his dues.


	2. The Breath Before the Plunge

"Did you notice how the day shift never fails to end on time?"

Nick snorted at Warrick's rhetorical question. The two CSIs were seated in the break room, Nick polishing off an apple while Warrick swallowed the last of his Danish.

"Well, I don't know," Sara interrupted as she entered the break room, her sharp ears catching the tail of the conversation. "You know very well they're under Ecklie's thumb, even though he's already our esteemed Assistant Director."

"Who's the supervisor on days?" Nick inquired. "Benjamin Hill?"

Warrick nodded, rolling his eyes once, as he chewed slowly. Sara pulled open the refrigerator and expertly skirted one of Grissom's experiments inside while snagging her sandwich baggie. Looking at her, Nick smirked – she'd definitely remembered their boss' tendency to leave his specimens of who-knew-what in the fridge to chill.

"Due to that calculative punctuality, we never get to meet them," Warrick added. "Not that I would want to, seeing how they've been exposed to Ecklie's influence."

Catherine and Greg strode into the break room on that last sentence. The former was dressed in a cashmere cardigan with pinstriped pants and matching jacket; Greg had on black Levis and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt. The youngest fledgling CSI was the most casually dressed – Nick had on a blue dress shirt and pants; Warrick had the usual T-shirt/brown jacket/dark pants ensemble, and Sara was clad in blue sweater and dark pants. Nevertheless, Greg was the brightest-eyed of all the five.

"We're stretched over these two shifts," Catherine announced. "No time to worry about days, as usual, they'll be no help to us. Today – or tonight, however you want to see it – we each have to work separate cases. Except you, Greg, you go with Grissom on the 420. Nick, you have a 419; Warrick, a 419-slash-407Z. Sara, you have a 405, and I get the 426. Clear?"

"Where _is _Grissom?" Sara pointed out, taking her sheet. "Suicide. I'm there."

"Toy store?" Warrick exclaimed, his tone going dark. His implication was clear, and the other five shook their heads and kept silent.

"Mine's all the way over at National Mead," Nick remarked. "I'm gone." As he passed Warrick, he squeezed his friend on the shoulder in added support before exiting the break room. Just before he turned the corner, he heard Greg complain, "Why do I always have to be with Grissom?"

Smiling wryly, Nick made for the exit and passed the locker room on his way out. When he glanced inside casually, he glimpsed the day shift prepping to leave the station.

Benjamin Hill, the supervisor after Conrad Ecklie, lifted his full head of blond hair and gave Nick a cool stare. His eyes were as hawkish as Ecklie's, and he had a reputation for being a suck-up to Ecklie and just as a stickler for the rules as the Assistant Director was. Roughly about six-feet-three, he was taller than even Warrick.

Owen Withers was even brawnier and bigger in size, but he grinned at Nick in greeting and reached over to tie his sneaker laces. With a head of light brown hair and a round, open face that looked amiable and cheerful, Nick didn't think he looked so bad.

The lone woman on the team, Beth Newman, looked Nick up and down with a small smile. Her long white blond hair glimmered on her shoulders and down to the small of her back, framing a pretty, heart-shaped face and brown eyes.

The last was Ernest McIntire, a Hispanic man about six feet tall and with the inquisitive gaze of a ferret. He peered cautiously at Nick before slamming his locker door, then, as the corners of his mouth turned up in a careful smile, he flicked his eyes away brusquely. Quiet and slightly ever taciturn, he was known to have a firebrand temper. Nick decided to take the gestures at face value, offering the day shift staff a passing nod and smile in return.

Well, first things first. Putting the day shift team out of his head, he looked back down at the printout in his hand and headed for the door – and his Tahoe – at a run.

Later he could ruminate about the day shift with Warrick. For now, he knew that Grissom would cock his eyebrow in that reproachful way of his, and Catherine glare at him, if they were aware that his mind had been on matters other than the 419 at hand.


	3. Dodging a Bullet?

Greg ran his fingers through his unruly hair and grimaced. Sitting in the driver's seat of his black SUV, he ran through his mind the checklist of to-do's before he met Grissom. Even though he was Level One, Grissom still treated him with respect and encouragement that he meted out to the others, and Greg wanted that to continue.

Okay. Crime-scene kit, with every tool and instrument inside accounted for? His photographic memory made a mental scan of the kit in his trunk – twice – until he was sure that angle was covered. Check. Camera case, film and tripod? Check. Flashlight with extra batteries? Check. Shoeprint-lifting kit and extra field kit? Check. Wet weather gear? Check. Files and forms? Check.

_Thank goodness for Warrick's lessons, _he surmised now. He could still recall their conversation where his CSI mentor instructed him in crime scene readiness at all times.

Pressing down on the accelerator, Greg watched as the road signs and markers whipped by outside the window. Then he pulled his eyes back to the street itself. The car bumped along the road surely but carefully – Greg had no wish of speeding or running lights. If a LVPD cop pulled him over for that it would be more than humiliating. He kept an eagle eye on his watch as he steered with two hands.

Before reaching his destination – a nice, quiet neighborhood in the middle of Suburbia City – Greg snuck one more look at the shotgun seat to make sure he'd brought along his ball cap, bottle of water, his jacket and some stationery. As he screeched to a halt beside Grissom's Tahoe, the second and minute hands of his watch announcing his perfectly prompt arrival, he stuffed the pen and notebook into the pocket of his vest.

He'd almost forgotten his ball cap on the break room table, in his hasty exit earlier. Grissom would've had his head if he knew Greg had actually left the cap in the locker room from yesterday's shift, not that it wasn't harmless or anything. Greg knew that Grissom, more than anything, was worried Greg might forget an important detail or tidbit of knowledge out in the field.

Well, his boss had nothing to worry about. It was in the locker room that Greg zoned out, de-stressing his mind from the strenuous work of the shift. When he was on-call, however, there couldn't be someone else more alert than he was. The others were more experienced, yes, that was a given, seeing how he was the newest CSI – but definitely not more alert than he was.

Good thing he'd brought the cap. It was going to be a scorcher of a day. Leaving the bottle in the drink tray and the jacket on the seat, he hopped out of the Tahoe. At the last minute he grabbed the cap by the brim – as he always did – and slammed his car door shut. His eyes swept over the cap and to his disappointment, he realized it seemed a little wet. Who had worn the cap before he had? Now the band and the inside of the cap looked shiny and slick with some liquid substance. He was just about to investigate it when…

"Greg. You're right on time."

Grissom stood right outside the door as if he'd just materialized. Despite himself, Greg jumped about five inches into the air.

"Hey, Grissom."

Grissom's gentle smile expanded, as if he knew what had caused Greg to levitate. "Come on, let's get started. Brass is already inside the house with David and the vic." He cocked his head to the right and looked straight at Greg curiously. "Is there something wrong with your cap?"

Greg shrugged his shoulders and grinned easily. "Nothing, I guess. It just seems soaked through for some reason, and even before I wore it." He reached up to place the cap on his head when some of the liquid inside dribbled out and onto his sleeve, eating right through the material in half a second and oozing out onto his arm.

Almost immediately, searing pain spread over the skin that the liquid made contact with. It felt like someone had branded him with a red-hot iron. With a yelp of agony, Greg dropped the cap to the pavement as the liquid bubbled over the back of his left forearm, raising in its wake bubbling blisters. He sagged against the black Tahoe as Grissom sprang to his side, concern etched on every deep line on the older man's face.

"Jim! We need help!"

* * *

"Is he okay?" Catherine's tinny voice sounded from Grissom's phone, both anxious and calming to Grissom at the same time.

"He's fine," he answered wearily. "So great, he's actually trying to persuade me to let him run the vic with me."

"How is he? What happened?"

Grissom frowned, one eye on Greg. The young man was seated in the open ambulance, his left forearm heavily bandaged. Despite his vigorous protests, Greg's face was pale and his movements were ever so sluggish. "The paramedics treated him for third-degree burns on his left forearm. They mentioned possible nerve damage, but they did add that if that happened, it would be temporary. At least the acid didn't drip onto his hands, or the nerves and the veins there would be severely affected. The skin on his left forearm and the brachioradialis muscle helped to protect the radius and the blood vessels from being attacked by the acid. Furthermore, the lesser amount of moisture on his arm prevented the acid from reaching its corrosive maximum."

"How could that have happened?"

"Hydrofluoric acid, I think. Or hydrochloric – in high concentrations they make extremely corrosive chemicals. Hydrofluoric acid is even more potent than hydrochloric acid. The inside of the cap was sprayed with Teflon, and then the acid was applied. Greg remembers that he carried the cap upside down the entire time, right up to the point that he turned it the right side up to put it on his head." He felt his jaw clench and a muscle twitch in his cheek at the implications.

"You know what this means, Grissom. This was well thought out, planned. Someone was out to get Greg."

Grissom nodded, though he knew she couldn't see him, over the phone. "He or she wanted Greg to die ignominiously. The acid was strong enough to have burned through his hair, face, scalp, and possibly even through his skull. If it reached the brain matter, that would've been a bonus – Greg would have already been dead."

The bitter, frustrated tone that entered his voice at the last sentence spoke volumes to Catherine about his emotional state. Several hundred miles away, she could visualize the scenario – Grissom feeling helpless and furious that someone had tried to kill his CSI; Greg having to rehash the past event in his life where he'd nearly died in the lab explosion. The worst part was, they were all divided on these shifts. There was no one to aid either their esteemed supervisor or their youngest charge.

"How's it going on over at your end?" he questioned suddenly, as if remembering out of the blue that she was working her own case.

"I'm fine," she assured him. "I have everything under control. The others should be okay – Vega hasn't heard anything over the scanner but Brass' call."

"When everyone has collected their evidence and cleared the scenes, I want us to convene back at the station," Grissom ordered, his flat tone hinting at no challenge. Catherine wasn't even vaguely tempted to bother. "If this is someone with a bone against Greg – or against all of us – I want everyone to stick together and be careful. Right now, we don't know who our foe is. I don't want Greg to be the first and not the last casualty."

"I got that."

The two supervisors said their goodbyes and hung up. Just as she did, however, Catherine's phone began buzzing again.

Was it Grissom with another last-minute instruction? Surprised, Catherine flipped open the phone and answered. Maybe he had something else to add to his theory.

"Willows."


	4. Slam, Bam, Thank You Ma'am

Sara waited for the coroner to check the body before she started work.

The vic was in his late forties, beefy and balding and unshaven, with a big paunch. Dressed in a stained singlet and pants, he lay face-up on the scratched wood floor, a 9mm Beretta in his tightly clenched fist, the single gunshot wound to the head testifying to COD. His wallet ID had yielded his name: Darren Fellows.

The tiny house did not look much better. A single-story unit, the minute bathroom, bedroom and kitchen were filled with cheap furniture and peeling walls and ceiling. Rubbish was strewn here and there – on the countertops in the kitchen, on the floor in the bedroom, overflowing from the trash can in the bathroom. Dirty dishes and half-empty takeout containers clogged the sink and fridge; unwashed clothing was tossed unceremoniously here and there. Sara had to breathe through her mouth to prevent herself from being overwhelmed by the stink of everything. Over the odors of rotting food and trash, the sweet coppery smell of spilt blood wafted like ashes on the wind.

"I'm thinking this is a slam dunk, for once," O'Riley commented aloud as he nosed in the miniscule bedroom. Sara stood in the narrow hallway outside. "Guy's been depressed for some time. No family or friends to speak of or talk to. Lost his job, savings perhaps? Decided to pack a bullet to end it all."

Sara snapped photos automatically, her brain running over the tempting possibility. She let her mouth quirk in anticipation of that thought, and then sighed as she let it go. Grissom would tell her not to jump to conclusions, that the evidence would lead them where the case should go. She briefly wondered if he was thinking about her – about everyone on his or her own case, she automatically corrected herself defensively.

_Don't go there, Sidle. You don't want to know where it'll lead you. _

"Hopefully," was all she offered in reply.

O'Riley raised an eyebrow, as if he knew what she was thinking. He continued to poke around in the bedroom, his eyes roaming the interior. His large size and relaxed body language would have been mistaken by almost any perp as laziness; Sara knew better. The detective was every bit as alert and on edge as she was, and that was saying something. Smiling slightly, she put down the camera and stowed the Beretta into an evidence bag. The bullet was in the guy's cranium, with no exit wound, so she could leave it to Dr. Robbins to pull it for her. Now she knelt next to the body to begin examining it for any traces of the abnormal.

The buzz of her phone interrupted her and for a second she felt irritated at the untimely disturbance. Then she squelched the feeling and answered the phone.

"Sara Sidle."

"Hey, Sara." It was Warrick, and he sounded grim. "Just heard from Nick. Greg's hurt, but not badly. Apparently he and Grissom hadn't even worked the scene yet before it took place. Grissom's the one handling the scene now."

"What happened?" Sara felt her heart skip a beat.

"Something involving hydrofluoric acid. Grissom told me that Greg will be fine. Listen, he wants us to meet up after we get our evidence and close the scenes."

"Will do. I just got started. Are _you_ finished?" She could believe the affirmative to her question; she'd driven about half an hour thanks to the lousy traffic on the highway. The toy store that Warrick had gone to was only a few blocks away from the station, and her colleague and friend was a fast worker. Especially so if he wanted to solve a case fast – and the fact that a kid was the D.B. made that idea a very valid one.

"Yeah, I just stowed the evidence bags in my car. The detective's getting a statement from the store owner, and the coroner's taking the body away. Little girl." His voice went tight for a second, and then resumed its usual ironic tone.

"I can't believe it happened in a toy store," Sara said bitterly. She could just imagine the scene, and the buildup before that. So much for childhood innocence when death could even enter where adult ideas and rules and regulations could not. She pictured a little girl, happy and eager, entering the childhood Mecca of toys and games, looking around for a treasure to call her own. Then that same girl, tiny form sprawling as a bullet hit, or a knife pierced, or a pair of powerful hands closed in an iron grip.

Closing her eyes and shaking her head to banish the images, she blew out a breath through stiff lips in a variation of a weary sigh to cue Warrick's reply.

"Yeah. I –"

Warrick's voice suddenly gave way to a cry of pain. A crash reverberated in Sara's ear, and then a thud. Static dissolved the other sounds, and she no longer heard Warrick at all after that.

Then the phone went dead.


	5. Child's Play

Sam Vega had been on the job for years, and working with Gil Grissom and Catherine Willows and their team was one of the perks of the job. They were extraordinarily capable and dedicated people who cared more about the human condition than red tape and bureaucratic nonsense.

In all the time he'd accompanied the CSIs on cases, he'd never seen Catherine shocked or deeply disturbed by anything. Except maybe her ex-husband's murder, or when the welfare and safety of the team and its members were at stake. But apart from those rare moments, she was always unruffled and steady as a rock of Gibraltar.

When Catherine received the second phone call, she turned white as a sheet. All the blood drained from her face and her mouth fell open. For a few seconds Vega feared that she would pass out, and he moved closer to prevent that possibility. Her lips worked for a blink before she finally regained her speech.

"_What?_"

* * *

Warrick ducked under the police tape and headed inside the toy store. Detective Vartann spotted him and made eye contact, occupied as he was with talking to a heavyset man wearing a uniform tag. It was likely that he was the store owner or a manager, and not a mere assistant or part-timer. Warrick didn't see any other store personnel around. Vartann inclined his head towards the toy store before returning his undivided attention back to the man he was interrogating.

Wishing he could have traded this case with one of the others, Warrick strode languidly into the store and took in the scene with a practiced eye.

The toy store was crammed with long shelves stretching throughout the place and tacked to the walls like aisles in a mini-mart. Every shelf was filled seemingly to bursting with toys and games, labeled accordingly with placards that hung from the ceiling in front of each aisle.

His heart growing heavier with each step, Warrick started from Aisle One – mobiles, rattles, whistles, yo-yos, rubber duckies, Fisher-Price Central – and began to walk slowly down the store to find the coroners and the D.B. He passed the Legos and the Play-Mobil section, vehicles, construction sets, the go-carts and trikes, the educational puzzles, the Play-Doh and Silly Putty, and the stuffed animals. Then he rounded a corner and turned to find the doll section in Aisle Thirteen.

Kids' heaven – and not just for little girls only. Warrick spotted Barbies by the truckload, bald baby dolls, child-sized talking dolls, and dolls from kids' cartoons and movies. Warrick recognized Transformer, X-Men and Star Wars action figurines among others. Besides this, a whole bottom shelf was devoted to Cabbage Patch and Good Guy dolls. He grimaced – he hated the Child's Play movies – and then he turned his attention to the little girl lying facedown on the tile floor just beside that same shelf. Her blond hair was tangled around her still head, and her small form was clad in a dress patterned with little red cartoon devils that grinned and stuck out their tongues. Blood spread from the center of the girl's back, the exit wound small and narrow, indicating the possible use of a knife blade as the murder weapon. A Beanie Baby puppy and My Little Pony doll lay just beyond her outstretched hands, as if they'd tumbled from her grasp when she'd fallen.

Warrick felt a muscle jump in his cheek, and he clenched his jaw. Immediately he got down on his knees, opening his field kit and automatically pulling out everything he needed. He snapped photos quickly, and then bent to examine the body.

Huh. Blue fibers and some red ones. Interesting. He put them in envelopes and then moved on. The fatal stab wound to her chest was _straight through_, as if the assailant had gotten down onto his knees to kill the little girl. She was roughly about four years old and small for her age. That would make her really short to the average man.

What was that all about?

There was no other evidence that her body could yield. Warrick looked up at the hovering coroners, the men waiting to collect the child and then send her body to Dr. Robbins. They were clearly fidgety – probably wanted to complete the task and go get roaring drunk. Warrick felt the same. Only difference – his work had just gotten started.

"Time of death, guys?"

"An hour and thirty-six minutes ago. Counting."

"Thanks." Warrick directed the men as to where they could step and watched grimly as they loaded the little girl onto the gurney, covered her body with the cloth, and then walked carefully out the door of the store. The scene reminded him of a funeral procession. For the dead to be so young was a brutal injustice.

Okay. It was late afternoon, approximately 17:48. The robbery had taken place at about 16:00 – in those twelve minutes in between the robbery and the murder, a little girl had been killed. The robber had run out after taking the cash, and the counter had been at the other end of the store. So the man could have had stabbed the girl before he hit the exit. Why? For fun and games? Or because the girl had seen his face? Had she stared at him, causing him to freak out?

Warrick gritted his teeth. Placing the evidence markers around at specific points where he saw blood drops and anything else interesting for evidence. Then he stopped short and cocked his head. The blood drops led to _under _the Cabbage Patch/Good Guy doll shelf. He turned his head to the side, bent and glanced beneath the shelf, using his flashlight to help illuminate the narrow space.

The glint of light from his torch off a knife blade greeted him.

_Bingo. _

Fishing under the shelf gingerly, he finally snagged the rounded end of the knife handle with two of his gloved fingers. As he drew it out, he realized both with dismay and triumph that the six-inch blade was stained three inches with blood. He would have bet his new Martin acoustic guitar that the blood belonged to the little girl. If he hit the jackpot tonight, it would be that there were fingerprints or skin cells caught on the blade.

Examining the knife closely, he saw a near-microscopic speck of some substance – rubber, plastic, leather? – caught in the edge of the blade just above where the handle ended and the blade began. Plucking it off with tweezers, he dropped that trace bit of evidence into an envelope and the knife into a plastic evidence bag.

The rest of the store yielded nothing interesting, except that Warrick learnt more about toys and games that children nowadays played than he ever cared to know. He found several footprints, mostly child-size, a few footprints that clearly belonged to adults. Collecting the shoeprints from the toy store proprietor didn't take long, and would rule out some of the prints. Maybe.

His cell shrilled, and it was Nick. Warrick listened to the breaking news, his stomach churning with anxiety, until Nick gave him enough reassurances to calm that storm for a while.

"Grissom wants us to meet back at the station. Maybe his office, I don't know."

"Okay. I'm almost done here. I'll let Vartann know what happened."

"You do that. Help me tell Sara about this, will you? I have to get on with my 419 and zip back to the station ASAP. This traffic is no joke, seriously – especially since I'm all the way out at Lake Mead."

"Tell me about it. See you later, buddy."

Both men disconnected. Warrick dialed Sara's line and tucked his phone between his shoulder and his left ear as he sealed the evidence bags and placed them in his boot. When he ran into Detective Vartann, he summarized Nick's phone conversation in a few sentences. The detective looked like someone had hit him.

"Marty Jacks, the store owner, mentioned that surveillance cameras cover only the cashier counter where he was, and the door of the store," he enlightened Warrick. "He went to get the tapes. I'll meet you outside while you close up the scene?"

"Sure." Warrick headed back into the toy store to get his gear. When he was just passing Aisle One, Sara answered her phone.

_About time, _Warrick thought laconically. Then he dismissed it – they all should be, and were going to be, very, _very _busy this afternoon and night.

Filling her in on what happened took as long as walking down to the crime scene. Warrick used his shoulder to hold his phone in place again as he knelt to pack up his field kit. The camera lay nearby, just behind the large silver box.

"I can't believe it happened in a toy store," Sara gritted.

Warrick knew exactly how she felt. They'd all had seen their childhoods come and go. What was it like for the kids who never even had a chance to grow up for real – and for their parents and families? He was so preoccupied with the emotions behind their talk that he never heard the faint thump and the quiet, light footsteps behind him.

"Yeah. I –"

Suddenly he felt a blow to the side of his right leg, in the center of his thigh, and then a blinding pain spread from the point of impact. Immediately his weight turned against him, as his leg gave out from under him and he dropped to the floor, slamming hard up against a shelf of figurines. The phone smashed to the floor ten paces from him, sliding all the way down the aisle. He twisted to the side to avoid breaking the camera – no camera, no way they could solve the case minus photographs.

With a groan, Warrick moved his hand to the side of his leg. His fingers came away wet with blood that gushed from the wound. Then he looked up at his attacker. Despite himself, he went cold for a heartbeat at the sight.

A _child-sized _Good Guy doll – barring all Chucky references, Warrick's mind crazily joked – stood in front of him, another six-inch knife dripping rubies in its artificial grasp. Then the doll began to walk steadily forward towards Warrick, movements jerky and eyes glassy, the knife held aloft like a footman bearing a glass.

Feeling white-hot pain from head to toe, Warrick scrambled backwards, dragging his wounded leg over the floor, the agony of the stab wound nearly causing him to pass out. At the same time, he reached for the gun holstered at his left side.

As if the doll actually _saw _the action, it picked up its speed.

Warrick grabbed the gun and released the safety just as the doll jumped onto him, the knife jabbing down at him, slashing a shallow line down his chest as he struck out with the gun. The blow sent the doll flying back against the shelves, knocking several Cabbage Patch munchkins out of carefully arranged positions in the doll lineup.

Footsteps sounded frantically into the store as the doll straightened back up and came at Warrick again. The doll raised the knife blade jerkily, the tip pointing straight downwards at a vertical angle, ready to be plunged into the CSI's face.

This time, however, Warrick had his bearings ready. He squeezed the trigger just as Detective Vartann skidded around the corner, aimed and fired at the ready.

The doll came apart in two halves, the two bullets hitting it and shredding it, dividing torso from legs. With another thump, the doll's torso smacked down on the very same spot; the legs, blown by the impact, slid all the way back in front of Warrick. He looked down, nausea and blood loss making him lightheaded, and saw blue sparks of electricity and wiring dancing within those decapitated plastic limbs.


	6. Wild Cards

Grissom felt like pulling his hair out of their roots – something he hadn't felt in most cases, excluding the Paul Millander and Kevin Greer murders.

It hadn't been two hours into today's combined swing shift/graveyard shift, and already two members of his team had been attacked. Intentionally directed at their team? Grissom's gut told him so. Who but a psychopath – one with a vendetta, at that – would pour acid in a hat and hard-wire a doll into an inanimate killing machine? Why the acid, and why the doll? To show off unobserved prowess in electronics and chemistry? Because they were conveniently used as bait in a trap? _What?_

He blew out his breath in one frustrated sigh. He'd sent Greg back along with the paramedics so he could concentrate fully on the scene. Halfway through using the fingerprint powder and the luminol, he'd been notified by Jim Brass about Officer Vartann's urgent report over the police scanner. Warrick, too, had been taken to the hospital for medical attention.

Thank goodness that both Greg and Warrick weren't severely injured. Would it mean, however, that the killer(s) would try even harder to eliminate them? Were the others in mortal danger as well? Did the team require police protection? What did the killer(s) hope to gain from all this? Grissom's body froze momentarily at even the thought of Sara succumbing to the twisted schemes of the single or multiple crazies lying in wait. Then his mind shifted to the others, imagining them brutally injured or dead.

Absently he reviewed the files he held. Just five minutes ago he'd returned to the station with Brass, his mind on his own case and his worry with Greg and Warrick and his thoughts on the anonymous, unknown killer gunning for the team.

Catherine was fifteen minutes away from the station, and Nick and Sara were still at their own crime scenes. Grissom felt his stomach jump at the thought of any one of them being waylaid along the way. Right now he had no idea what to do about everything. Their resources and personnel were stretched beyond their limits, and he wanted to concentrate on the issue at hand – the killer – while he had the responsibility to investigate and solve the pending cases they'd been assigned.

Maybe he would have to go to Conrad Ecklie and ask if he could drag back part of the day shift to help. If he recruited Catherine to help persuade the Assistant Director – and the fact that they had to even beg him was ridiculous – Conrad just might yield. For once. The way their luck was going, Grissom didn't think so. Conrad was a jerk and a stick-up-the-ass bureaucrat – if there wasn't anything in it for him, he wouldn't care.

Okay. He'd just called Sofia in after she'd completed her own case pending from yesterday's shift. She would take over his 420 and report to him the developments on the case. Catherine had already said the 426 was a slam dunk; she'd found semen in the vic's vagina and splattered all around the vic's bedroom. The guy's fingerprints were everywhere to be found. Moreover, the vic had scratched her attacker, and the guy had inflicted cuts on her that looked like they came from a ring on his finger. Mia was already extracting and processing the DNA samples now.

Grissom knew very well he couldn't pull Nick or Sara off their cases, seeing how they'd just started. He and Catherine would just be enough to process Warrick's crime scenes, both the one with the murdered child and the other with Warrick as the vic himself. Greg and Warrick would be off the cases, and Grissom had requested that Brass put a police detail around either CSI.

He wasn't going to take any chances. Not now. Not ever.

The anger that hit him was a welcoming emotion from the helplessness and frustration and even fear that he felt. Whoever this creep was, he would learn soon enough that Grissom wasn't going to condone his actions one iota.

Criminals became who they were depending on their backgrounds, upbringing and their circumstances, as well as their own decisions. Some couldn't be totally responsible for the way they had gone; others were completely at fault.

This psychopath fell under the latter, whoever he or she or _they _were. Grissom wasn't going to take it lying down when his CSI family was at stake. If this guy dealt a card, Grissom was going to return the favor in spades. Sooner or later, the killer(s) would make a mistake, and when that happened, Grissom would nail him like a fly to the wall.

And he was going to enjoy doing it.


	7. Which One's Your Favorite?

He'd been so close!

The man who'd dubbed himself the Devil on earth cursed obscenely. To his amusement and surprise, his piranhas actually dived under the stone Kahuna statue inside the tank to hide from the unexpected noise. The sight brought his thoughts back to the situation at hand.

First of all, Greg Sanders should not have gotten off death so easily – in fact, he should not even have gotten off at all. To think that he'd sustained only a freaking burn on his arm instead of a skull that had caved in from the acid was an insult, plain and simple, to the Devil. It also reminded the Devil how much of the situation was under his control, and what events and details he had to leave to fate.

No! No, no, no, no. _He _was the one in control here. _He _had the power to decide life and death for those that crossed him!

As for the nigger Warrick Brown…

The Devil stuck his thumb into his mouth and bit down hard on the cuticle in frustration. Then he took his finger out of his mouth – every time he began a new habit he curtailed it immediately. Discipline was the key, and he prided himself on his threshold of self-control and perfection.

That Brown had survived was sheer dumb luck. The Devil had had decided on the toy store for convenience and because the tools for a swift and satisfying kill were all present. He'd built the doll himself, stealing an original product from the shelves before wiring the doll and practicing nearly every waking moment from the time that the idea entered his head. The kid had just been _there _for his use, and it was a good thing too.

The fact that her little dress had had his symbol on it was just pure poetry.

'Chucky' had worked fine. It was because Detective Vartann had intruded, and the fact that the Devil had been distracted by – a certain matter – that Warrick Brown and the police detective had managed to turn the tide on the doll.

Stupid, interfering creatures!

The Devil inhaled and exhaled several times before he managed to calm himself back down once more.

Well, their survivals only postponed the inevitable. He _would _destroy them – but not after doing away with Gilbert Grissom, and educating the rest. Right now, he would show his kinder side by extending their lives a little longer. Yes. That was true.

Okay, who was next? Humming to himself, he turned to the collage of newspaper clippings, photographs, notes, maps and Post-its that he'd plastered over the walls of his secret lair. Later he would add the contingency plans for the actual elimination of Greg Sanders and Warrick Brown. For now, it was so much more interesting to concentrate on the women, Nicholas Stokes, or Gilbert Grissom. He ran his mind over the past few days, focusing only on the memories where he ever had interaction with the swing and graveyard shifts.

_Eenie, meenie, mynie, moe…_

Nicholas was due on his list, but not yet. No, not yet – it just wasn't time. The same argument ran for Catherine Willows. Grissom would obviously be the last to go; the Devil decided, in a moment of compassion, to leave Sara Sidle to be second last. He would give Gilbert Grissom that last mercy – not that he deserved it.

Sofia Curtis was a lovely flower, albeit not in the prime of her youth, not that it mattered. And wasn't she Grissom's current paramour? Poor, pathetic fool. The supervisor wasn't smart enough to realize that Sara loved him as well, and he had his mind currently on Sofia. What an arrogant, pompous bug-brain! Did he think Sara would wait around forever for him?

The fact that Sofia was interested in Grissom and vice versa, gave her more than enough merit to be chosen as the first student up for a little re-training.

And, boy, did the teacher look forward to that lesson.


	8. Do I Know You?

Nick tucked the evidence envelopes into his vest and watched wearily as the coroners lifted the gurney with the dead woman on it and headed away. Jane Doe – the unidentified blond vic – had died of strangulation, her head almost separated from her neck by a wire garrote. No evidence had been recovered from under her nails – for starters, she didn't even have nails; her fingers had been removed, and so had all her teeth. The blood and skin on the wire had to most likely come from the vic herself.

The struggle had evidently been short and sweet in the killer's book. Nick had combed the area around the trees where Jane Doe had been found, but he'd discovered no footprints, no fibers, nothing he could use. The lack of a gun used as a murder weapon meant he couldn't even search for a bullet and give said bullet and firearm to Bobby Dawson for his prognosis. Again, another dead end.

Nick's real concern was the fact that they wouldn't be able to identify Jane Doe. The killer had to be familiar with forensics techniques somehow, or maybe he had just watched a lot of movies – without teeth or fingerprints, the vic couldn't be identified. Nick hadn't seen any tattoos or scars on the vic's body from what he could spot, which made it even worse. Unless someone filed a Missing Persons report soon, Jane Doe would remain just that. And her killer would remain on the loose.

Stowing the evidence markers, his camera, evidence bags, flashlight and other CSI paraphernalia in his kit, Nick stripped off his gloves and sighed. He'd searched doggedly for over an hour already, going over the crime scene several times. To have found nothing was a deep disappointment – and spoke volumes about the killer.

"Stokes."

Nick glanced up at the police detective behind him and felt his stomach contract. Detective Cavaliere stood next to Officer Metcalf, the latter looking completely oblivious to the sudden tension that had sprouted up between Nick and Cavaliere.

Well, naturally he wouldn't know a thing about what had transpired a few days ago between Nick and Cavaliere. The case still bothered Nick like a leech at his ankle, the case where twelve-year-old Ty Hawkins had been killed by his older brother Matthew for next to no reason at all. Already such murders fed the demons in his nightmares, reminding him of what had happened to him at age nine; the detective's bullheadedness and violence during that case had disturbed him even more. After all the time that CSI and cop had worked together, the fact that the police detective would so easily stamp that all down into the dirt was like a slap in the face.

"Detective Cavaliere was in the neighborhood," Metcalf chirped innocently. Cavaliere didn't say anything, only stared hard at Nick.

Not wanting to start up a staring contest and antagonize the police detective, Nick simply nodded. Besides not trusting his emotions to even muster up a greeting, he was unsure of what to say or do that would adversely affect their relationship even more than it already was. He turned back to his kit and finished packing up in silence. When he was done, he picked up the heavy case, gripping the handle like his lifeline. With a final nod at Cavaliere and the clueless Metcalf, he loaded his stuff in his Tahoe.

Pushing his keys into the ignition, he blew out a frustrated breath.

That wasn't how he wanted to go. Nick had a friends-to-all approach that helped him in the cases he ran and his own life. Cavaliere's attitude and actions didn't keep him up at night; it was in the day that running into the man reminded him all the time of what had transpired, what should _not _have transpired between them.

The call came when he was just about to boot up the engine. He listened to Catherine speak, the news totaling him like a ton of bricks. Stunned beyond belief, he felt his insides shrivel even more, his emotions shred till they fell at the bottom of his heart in miserable little pieces. He slammed a fist into the steering wheel, and the pain that throbbed in his hand jarred him ever so slightly from his rage and shock.

"I'll be there," he promised the woman.

"Don't get into an accident," she answered quickly, sounding like his mother for a while. He smiled grimly at the thought. Texas seemed very far away from Las Vegas right now – in all aspects of the phrase.

Hanging up, Nick glared at Cavaliere through the windshield, even though the detective couldn't see him. On the day that he couldn't handle this emotional see-saw, the man just had to invite himself and give Nick even more to deal with. Then he viciously cut Cavaliere from his thoughts. The others were the first on the agenda – he'd handle the case and help his team, and _then _he'd think about what was Cavaliere's problem.

One step at a time.


	9. Patience, a Virtue to be Hated

Author's Note:

I humbly apologize for the long period of no writing. I was busy with my preparations for heading overseas for university, and my other occupations. I promise to be less tardy in the future. :) Hope you enjoy the new chapter. Thank you for all your reviews - they keep me going! And trust me, there'll be more to come soon enough.

* * *

Grissom had never really figured himself as a man subjected to nervousness or jittery fear. He knew he was able to keep his head in the job, to be cool and professional and in control of his emotions. An acquaintance of his had once remarked that she felt Grissom had ice water in his veins.

Yet now Grissom found himself in the throes of nail-biting anxiety.

When Catherine had returned to the lab, she'd helped him sort out the evidence they'd collected. Both supervisors had placed the evidence gathered from the toy store case containing the child vic on the left of the massive work table in the layout room, and the evidence bags and envelopes from the 'Chucky' case on the right-hand side of the table. Right now she was passing Trace and DNA what they had collected, to get a head start on identifying the killer(s).

That left Grissom, sitting at the square table and trying not to jiggle his leg in impatience and pent-up energy.

Greg and Warrick were both at the University Medical Center, getting treatment. Grissom had heard that Greg had more or less bounced back from the acid incident – for now – and he was ribbing Warrick as the latter was getting stitches. That was good – they could keep each other company and there was safety in numbers. Grissom had already requested for Brass to send a detail over in the form of Detectives Vega and Cavaliere, and Brass had jumped at the idea even before Grissom had finished.

Nick still hadn't arrived, and Sofia was at Grissom's old scene with Detective Vartann, the good detective having just rushed down from the toy store scene. Grissom couldn't begin to express his gratitude to the detective. He'd listened to Warrick's account of how the detective had rushed into the store the minute he realized something was wrong, just in time to eliminate 'Chucky' from doing the same to Warrick.

That doll was a nightmare. Grissom had examined it, and he'd realized that Warrick's attempted killer had had dedication and patience and expertise enough to rip out the insides of the doll, replacing them with wiring and batteries, and then stuffing the doll and sewing it back up. He or she had then practiced like mad to manipulate the doll to perfection. The limbs and digits were heavy and solid, and possessed dexterity enough when wired, so as to be manipulated for the killer's fancies.

Grissom had no doubt that 'Chucky' had been used to murder the little girl and had been used in an attempt to gut Warrick. It was almost genius in a twisted way, and displayed part of the killer's psyche: movie buff, or maybe just took a fancy to the idea, or perhaps he was afraid to take Warrick on in person. It could be that he or she worked with electronics and chemicals, judging from the attacks on the CSIs.

Then why the little girl? Why Tiffany Withers? The name sounded familiar to Grissom, but he couldn't nail it. For now, he decided to return his thoughts to reality.

So Sofia was accounted for. Sara, on the other hand, had dialed Grissom's cell phone to reassure him of her pending arrival several minutes ago.

As if in confirmation, the main object of his thoughts walked in, her arms piled high with evidence in bags, envelopes and boxes. Her brown hair, a shade between chestnut and auburn, bounced on her shoulders as she furrowed her brow in concentration, trying to keep from losing any of her loads to the floor. When she glimpsed him at the table, her mouth conjured up the automatic smile that she always seemed to reserve for him and him alone.

Ignoring the curious bump in his stomach, Grissom immediately returned the smile, despite the grimness of the situation. He stood up and moved towards her. "Let me help you with that."

Sara's smile spread like sunshine, making her face look even prettier. "Thanks."

Grissom cleared a section of the table to allow her to place the evidence down for a spell. He watched as she relieved her arms before he put his own load down next to hers, then cleared his throat. Part of his nervousness was alleviated with Sara's arrival, though now the remaining discomfort and anxiety were directed to Nick's return. "Did you find anything suspicious at the scene?"

Sara's eyes narrowed in thought. She leaned back against the table next to Grissom, too close for ordinary liking, but somehow it felt comfortable to Grissom. "The vic fitted the profile for suicide. His place was trashed, and his life looks to be a mess. I think he really did it, but I can't be sure. I didn't find any traces of skin or fingerprints on the gun but his, and no other evidence of someone else present." She gave him a tiny smile and shrug. "Maybe, like O'Riley suggested, this is a slam dunk."

"Hmmm." Grissom sighed. If only things were that easy. "First on the scene?"

"Neighbors said he hadn't been out for days. They figured they wanted to be sure that he was okay."

Grissom cocked an eyebrow. _Good Samaritans, or something else? _"O'Riley's on it, isn't he?"

Sara nodded as Catherine came back into the layout room. Her alert eyes raked the supervisor and CSI before flicking to the evidence table. "Hey, Sara."

"How are Warrick and Greg?" Sara immediately questioned, Catherine's presence seemingly serving as a reminder that she and Grissom were no longer alone in the room. Or maybe, Grissom added mentally and quickly, Sara probably thought to ask Catherine since the woman was Warrick's supervisor and a natural mentor to Greg.

"Greg's regained some of his sense of humor. Warrick's a little gritty around the edges, but he and Greg are demanding that they return to the station, if only to stay out of our way on the physical action." Catherine took a breath before she continued. "Hodges and Mia just made the evidence their number one priority." Wide blue eyes darted around the layout room once more. "Where's Nick?"

Grissom opened his mouth to give a weary answer, but Sara beat him to it. "He's on his way. He just called me, saying he was tied up in traffic en route."

Catherine raised her own eyebrows. "Is he really?"

The other two immediately understood the implication. The longer Nick stayed away and out of police protection of the station and lab…

Well, the idea made Grissom feel sick for a moment.

"He'll be fine," he forced heartily. "Let's get started so we can update Nick when he gets here. He's a big boy; he can take care of himself. Plus, we're all armed." Then he shut his mouth, realizing that he was attempting to reassure himself more than he was the two women. From the looks on their faces, he knew just as much.


	10. Ollie Ollie Oxen Free

Author's note:

Hey, people, sorry for the delay again. I can't believe how busy I am these days, what with work and prepping for university and doing church stuff. Anyways, my apologies to those who patiently waited! You guys are great for being so supportive. (:

P.S. Detective Vartann is my fav detective on the show (other than Vega; Brass doesn't count) and he has hardly any background to speak of. So I just decided to interject some, along with references to the show here and there - AKA Nick and Cavaliere in Compulsion, Sofia in Mea Culpa, etc.

Cheers. Happy reading!

* * *

Sofia Curtis liked her job. Really, she did. But there were the times when she thought it was just the pits.

Grissom had asked her to cover the 420 – the homicide. She had just wrapped her own case, a particularly trying one where the physically handicapped victim had been killed just because he was in a wheelchair. Tired and beat, she'd returned to the station only looking to go home, eat something, and hit the sack.

Then Grissom had materialized in the layout room and all but commanded her to take over his case.

Sofia shook herself mentally and tried to stay positive. It wasn't easy until she remembered what had happened to Greg and Warrick.

The crime scene was a poster child for your typical suburban home. Crime scene tape crisscrossed the lawn and the porch, the latter upon which the victim had been spotted by the paper boy. The sprinkler spray was petering out, the police officers finally having been successful in switching off the sprinkler system.

Detective Vartann was leaning on his Tahoe, the skin of his rugged face stretched much too tightly over his cheekbones, his eyes deep and hollow in their sockets. He looked half dead; certainly, Sofia thought he would be after she'd heard what had gone on down at the Kids' Korner toy store. The sharp-as-tacks detective's eyes were half-lidded, but as Sofia pulled her SUV to a stop, he was up and on his feet, face alert despite the weariness still present there.

"Hey, Sofia."

Sofia smiled in greeting at the detective as she lugged her silver field case out of the passenger seat. "Good to see you, Vartann. What's the gist on the vic?"

Vartann sighed, squeezing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "Mark Tower, age 37. Lives with his wife and toddler – both of who were upstairs sleeping. The paper boy found him after tossing the newspaper onto the lawn and seeing blood dripping down from the porch."

"You don't say," Sofia commented, her heart sinking down into her stomach.

She didn't entirely require Vartann's description. From where she stood on the lawn, avoiding the dying drops of the sprinkler, she could see dark red stains that had flowed over the porch steps and down to the garden path. The blood on the path was being steadily diluted and washed away by the sprinkler water.

"What was the deal about the sprinkler?" she queried.

Vartann rolled his eyes. For a second he looked like his old casual, confident self, and not the tired soldier that had replaced him. "The thing was broken. It was stuck; just kept turning on every day and was so difficult to turn off. The Towers were going to have it repaired, but the utilities company just kept blowing them off. Took us ages before we could even find the off switch; even then, they had to actually cut the Towers' water supply to do it. Mrs. Tower consented."

The aforementioned wife was standing out on the sidewalk, holding her little boy in her arms. Disheveled, pale, and clearly in shock or grief, she stood alone, watching the officers race around like ants and weeping without pause. Sofia's heart sank even more.

"You took her statement?" she pressed.

Vartann turned to look at the woman and child. His eyes were bleak. "Yeah, I did." His demeanor turned more businesslike, and he straightened. "Rebecca Tower and little Oliver Tower, ages 33 and 2. Nice age. They were asleep. Rebecca said that it wasn't unusual for Mark to be awake earlier than she was. He would always get up, watch a DVD or check his email and work stuff, and then he would grab the paper to get a read before she did. They didn't have any marital problems, and they've been married for three years."

Sofia sized up the woman. She was quite attractive, for a housewife, with a good-sized bosom and nice hourglass figure.

"I would figure her to at least have a boyfriend on the rocks," she confessed with brutal honesty. "I mean, come on, married for a few years, young kid, maybe she got bored with being an old married housewife and mothering."

Vartann shrugged. "That comment on her looks I understand. Don't ask me about the rest – I only know that every night, I return home to my dog and my fridge full of Chinese and pizza. My cable TV's my other best friend."

"No girlfriend?" Sofia asked, raising an eyebrow. _Could've surprised me._

Vartann twitched a sheepish smile."Okay, she's a paramedic. I go home and tell her that I was held back because of a dead body on the tracks. She nods and answers me that she was late because of a gunshot victim and a kid with a severed finger, and dinner's on the table."

"Nice," Sofia remarked enviously. _Not everyone is so fortunate to have an other half that understands…_

"Uh huh." Vartann kept on smiling for a few more seconds, his mind clearly on his girlfriend. Sofia figured that it wouldn't be long into the future before the little lady saw an engagement ring handed to her. She hid her smirk, but just barely.

Vartann returned to reality. "I'll get phone records et al." He pointed out the coroners to Sofia. "You better clear a path for them, they've been hovering like vultures."

Sofia gave him a mock salute. "On my way, boss."

Vartann ambled off, his long legs making good time as he clambered past the wet grass, avoiding all possible trace and other evidence. Sofia headed over to the porch. Avoiding the blood pools, she tiptoed and maneuvered until she had found a perch solid enough for her to stay. Then she lifted the camera, retrieved the evidence markers and measures from her kit, and got to work.

Okay. The victim's throat had been slashed by a sharp tool, and he'd exsanguinated through his exposed windpipe. He'd clearly been surprised, as there were no defense wounds on his hands, and he was relatively large in stature – roughly six feet. Maybe the killer had snuck up behind him and slit his throat. Sofia did find dandruff in the man's hair, but that was about it. It could even be his, although the few flecks she'd discovered were found only around at the back of his head, near the crown. It was consistent if the killer had murdered Mark Tower from behind. The murder weapon wasn't anywhere to be seen or found.

Once she was done with the body, Sofia waved to the coroners. Then she got to her feet, tucking evidence envelopes and bindles into her vest pockets, and made her way into the house. Vartann on her heels, she walked through the two stories of rooms – kitchen, dining room, living room, master bedroom, kid's room, bathrooms – and found little that could be counted suspicious or relevant to the case.

When she was in the master bedroom, she looked out of the large picture window and saw that the officers were trickling away. The coroners were likely long gone.

"Where are they going?" she questioned, meaning the police officers.

"Big bank robbery in town," Vartann replied wearily. Seeing Sofia's look, he quickly added, "Ecklie told me that he'd get the day shift to handle it! Don't worry. He's probably rousing them all up right now."

Sofia continued looking at him for a few more seconds. Her emotions were mixed, as usual, when references to the day shift or Ecklie came up. _She _had been the day shift supervisor, before Ecklie had demoted her. It had been likely pure spite on Ecklie's part, directed at Grissom, and Sofia had gotten in the way just because she had the teensiest bit of interest in Grissom. She suspected that it was the reason too why she and Sara chafed so much at times.

"Right," she finally stated dryly.

Poking around some more in the bathroom yielded golden results. Sofia found the wastebasket full of used tissues and old papers. She dug through the heap, glad for her gloves. Vartann suddenly cocked his head, as if he'd heard something.

"What is it?" Sofia questioned, instantly alert.

Vartann continued listening for a few more seconds. His gaze was distant, and his hand went to the revolver holstered at his belt. "I'm sure it's nothing, but I'll check it out. Keep a sharp eye, okay? I'll be back."

"Sure." Sofia wasn't all that bothered. The cops had been swarming the house; surely there wouldn't be anyone who would still be here. She did take Vartann's words to heart, though. It wouldn't be the first time a CSI was exposed to danger, especially now as she recalled when Catherine had grappled with the suspect in a past case.

But that had been a rookie at the scene, not cop powerhouse Vartann, or the four other policemen that had been hanging around the property. Rebecca Tower had gone down to the station to clear up the paperwork and forms for her husband's body, once the autopsy had been conducted.

Sofia rifled through the mess. Then she located a utilities bill – water supply – thrown into the bin underneath a bubble gum wrapper and a paid parking ticket. The name of the utilities guy on the bill was Martin Finch. Sofia allowed her mouth to quirk in a smile as several bird jokes popped into her head, courtesy of spending time with Greg Sanders, and continued to push papers. Several other bills turned up, with the same name logged on each, and the oldest one had a phone number written on it.

The latest bill had a message on it: YOU WANNA GO OUT SOMETIME, DOLL? I'M FREE, NO RESPONSIBILITIES ATTACHED.

_Ooh. Motive for murder, anyone? _

Sofia packed all the bills into a large plastic evidence bag. She then placed the bag into her field case and emptied the bin onto the bathroom floor to comb for more evidence, finding it in the bloody tissues located not too far down from the hefty stack of utility bills. Jackpot.

It occurred to Sofia, that as she bagged the tissue, several minutes had passed, and she had heard nothing from Vartann at all.

* * *

Alex Vartann had had good memories in his life, to displace the bad. His family was a tight-knit one, and he visited his parents back in Laughlin as often as he could. He was a lone wolf and a born bachelor – and so he knew he'd surprised Sofia when he'd mentioned his girlfriend. Amy Watson was everything a cop could want, and they'd actually talked about the future, with no objections from either party.

As he walked stealthily down the stairs, he thought of Amy now. In her own way, she was as much of a detective as he was – only he hunted criminals of the human element; she hunted down criminals of the microscopic type.

He'd been unsure about what he said to Sofia being true. He had heard a slight thump downstairs, although it was possibly nothing. Vartann prided himself on having the sharpest hearing of all the LVPD detectives, and now the hairs rose on his neck as he pulled out his gun and carried it in a two-handed grip.

_Time to play hide and seek. _Hopefully, he wouldn't be the one who lost.

Peeking around the corner after he'd completely descended the stairs, he scanned both sides of the hallway and then sprang out, wielding the gun. The whisper of sound to his right alerted him, and he whipped around just as the Tazer darts struck him directly in the left shoulder. Instantly he lost all muscle control in the wake of the sharp jolt of pain that flashed through his body. The gun fell from his stiffened hand onto the carpet, the thick wool cushioning the metal, preventing any sound from being heard by Sofia upstairs. Vartann felt his legs give way, and as he dropped, rough hands grabbed him, easing him down to the carpeted floor.

His last thought before the darkness encompassed his consciousness was of his attacker, a shadowy figure all in black, stepping over him and heading for the stairs.


	11. Russian Roulette

Nick slapped his hand on the steering wheel as he counted off the minutes in his head. He blew out an annoyed breath and yanked off his cap in the hopes that fresh air would go to his head and keep him from exploding or imploding in frustration.

Whoa, what was this guy's problem? A little old man in a Chevy that had to have been purchased back in the Eisenhower administration was ambling along in traffic, as if he had no probable objective in mind. The jam had delayed Nick so much so that he was slowing the investigation because Grissom and Catherine wanted everyone back at the labs safely before actually commencing the investigation. Nick had finally dropped Sara a phone call urging her to start.

No point delaying things, after all. Especially since they had to catch this psycho before he succeeded in killing one of them. _Which_, Nick quickly cut himself off, _he wouldn't_. Not if the team could help it.

"Hey!" he shouted, poking his head out of his open car window. "Move it!" Fellow drivers honked in assent as the wizened old guy finally pulled his head out of his butt and pressed on the accelerator. The ancient Chevy wheezed to a start, emphasizing the finger that the slow-to-act driver jabbed at the rest of the cars steaming behind him.

Nick would have laughed, but he just didn't have the energy or the patience to.

"Enough of this," he muttered under his breath.

Jerking the steering wheel hard to the left, he veered out of the crowded lane and turned into a side street that led to several rows of well-kept two-story houses and gardens. There was a shortcut that he could take, and a heck lot of maneuvering around to do, but he was pretty sure that the journey off the beaten path would eat up less time than if he continued to meander around in hard traffic any longer.

"Some people should have their licenses banned," he groused, flooring the accelerator while ensuring his speed was sufficiently under control still.

As he breezed down the quiet street, his sharp-eyed gaze was yanked to the crime-scene tape that was wrapped around the front porch of a white and red-brick house. No one was around – cops and coroners alike were in absentia – and Nick briefly wondered if Sofia was there. Grissom _had _mentioned that the pretty CSI would be taking over the 420; if she needed any help Nick might be able to offer a hand, or run down to the lab and station with her evidence to be processed.

He took his foot off the accelerator and swung his Tahoe around, stopping it just shy of the curb. His senses registered the blood that dripped down from the porch, and the presence of Sofia's Tahoe and Vartann's Taurus next to the curb told him they had to be around and likely inside the house.

Taking a closer look at the crime scene, Nick's eyes widened.

_The front door was partially open two feet from the door jamb. _

Okay, this was Sofia and Vartann he was talking about. The overzealous CSI and the sharp-witted detective would never make a mistake like that. It was an open invitation for any crazies off the street to walk in and strike a blow against law enforcement. Nick didn't pretend to know just how many civilians disliked cops in general. He was naive, but not ridiculously so that he thought the sun shone only on Las Vegas.

Quietly he shut off the engine and exited, closing the driver's door enough so that he didn't have to slam it. Then he headed for the porch, sidestepping the ugly blood pool and easing the front door a little more ajar to allow for his musculature to pass through the opening.

The foyer was dim and cool compared to the raging sunlight outside. Nick reached for his revolver, holstered at his waist, and pulled it out, releasing the safety in one smooth motion as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the reduced illumination.

What he saw next was like a battering ram to the chest.

Detective Vartann lay sprawled on the thick rug at the foot of the stairs. The detective's eyes were closed, and he didn't appear to be breathing. His gun lay several paces away from an outstretched hand, as if it had been flung away when he was hit – or killed, Nick feared. Throwing caution to the wind, he moved quickly to Vartann's side and knelt next to him, checking the detective's pulse with his left hand while he kept the standard-issue in his right. He closed his eyes with relief when he felt a pulse, slow but steady, in the man's neck. The Tazer darts in the muscle of Vartann's shoulder told Nick the story of how the well-trained detective had been taken down.

He couldn't leave Vartann here. Throwing his arm around the detective's shoulders, he summoned a breath and all his strength to hoist the man's dead weight from the stairs to the living room nearby. Thankfully it was empty. With mental apologies to the unconscious man, Nick carefully and gently deposited him on the couch and then took a few seconds to get his breath back. Then he checked the kitchen and the dining room – empty – before he began the ascent to the second story.

The sounds of a tussle became audible when Nick reached the middle of the winding staircase. Grunts and pants of effort mingled with the sounds of flesh on flesh and flesh impacting hard surfaces. He struggled to suppress the trepidation and the fear that rose up in his belly, bracing his gun hand with his left the way he had always seen Brass do, the way he had been trained. It wasn't light enough that he could see his way without the aid of a flashlight that he clutched in his left hand.

The noises were coming from the master bedroom. Nick turned into the doorway of the room just in time to see Sofia go flying out of the bathroom and hit the floor painfully. Her attacker dove out of the bathroom and tackled her bodily, and she hit out at him, a move that was countered when the huge man, dressed all in black and with a ski mask over his face, grabbed her wrist and bent it back until she shrieked in pain. Then the perp seized her neck in one ham-sized hand, cutting off her air and choking her.

"Let go of her," Nick shouted, his thumb automatically jerking back the safety of the Glock he held in a firm grip.

Sofia's eyes immediately flicked to Nick, even as her bruised face registered rising panic at her lack of air. Her hands clawed at the man's viselike hold on her throat, and she gasped as the mountain-sized brute refused to relinquish his hands.

"I'm not going to tell you twice," Nick warned between gritted teeth. His finger tightened on the trigger in confirmation of his words.

The black-clad attacker didn't even flinch. In a lightning-quick move, he jerked Sofia around, taking his hands from her neck only to wrap a thick arm around her throat and spinning her about such that she faced Nick. The terror in her eyes was evident.

"Put the gun down or I'll kill her," the man retorted, pitching his voice low in a growl, obviously to hide his voice and to keep Nick and Sofia from identifying him.

"Nick, don't!" Sofia rasped, only to have the man's chokehold strangle her from saying any more. Her eyes bulged as he cut off her air once more.

Nick didn't even hesitate. He bent his knees and slowly reached down, placing the gun on the rug in front of him. As he laid the Glock on the carpet and the flashlight on the floor next to the rug, his mind started whirring wildly as he realized an observation that just might save Sofia's life and his own.

"Good boy," the man hissed, still in that same disguised tone. "Now stand back up and kick the gun over to me."

Without preamble, Nick grabbed the carpet and yanked. A shock ran up his arms, shoulders and back as his muscles took the weight of Sofia and her attacker, but his jock background and his body didn't disappoint. The gun slid off the loose carpet to thud under the bed, and the carpet, borne by Nick's strength, jerked enough to knock the man and Sofia off their feet. The man's massive bulk worked against him as he fell heavily to the floor, his arms flying out to catch himself, releasing Sofia in the process. The thud of the brute's body smacking the ground was a vibration that Nick could feel in his feet.

Sofia, senses on edge despite her disorientation and reduction of breathing air, freed herself from the man's weakened grasp. She lunged into the bathroom, reaching for the one thing that Nick knew she would locate at all costs: her own Glock. Nick dove for his own under the California king-size.

The attacker obviously knew he would be outgunned if he stayed. As Nick's questing fingers found his Glock, the man bounced to his feet, surprisingly agile for such a size, and stormed for the door. Nick sprang to his own feet and pursued the perp as the man headed like an angel of death for the railing that surrounded the second floor and overlooked the first story below. Gripping the railing with both gloved hands, the attacker heaved himself over as if he had a kamikaze wish.

The massive thud and the heavy treads of running feet greeted Nick as he too rushed to the railing and looked over it. The perp had landed on two feet and he didn't seem to have sprained or broken a bone. The last Nick could glimpse of him was a black shadow running confidently out of the front door. Seconds later, Nick could hear an engine turn over and a car accelerating away.

Cursing under his breath, he turned around and saw Sofia in the bedroom doorway. Her face was bruised and so was her throat, but other than that, she seemed fine physically. As her over-bright clear crystal blue eyes met his dark ones, Nick saw the pent-up fear and shock in there that hadn't been earlier present, due to adrenaline having shut out all other emotions.

"Hey," he said gently, not wanting to spook her any more than she already was. Sliding the safety on his Glock, he holstered it and approached her warily. "Are you all right? He's gone, I promise. He's gone."

Sofia stared at him as if she didn't recognize him. Then she finally nodded, the first attempt wooden, the second more genuine as she came back to reality. Color flooded into her bone-white complexion, and she seemed to register what had happened.

"What happened to Vartann?" she inquired in a small, lost voice. Nick felt his heart almost break at her tone. She had been terrified for her life, and he imagined Catherine or Sara in the same position as she was. It scared him beyond belief that there was this madman out there – if indeed it was the same killer that had attacked – and there was nothing anyone could do about it but wait for him to come for them.

"He'll be all right," he assured her. "That nutcase didn't go for him before he left, I'm sure of that. Let's go downstairs and wait with him."

Ushering Sofia ahead of him, making sure the weary young woman holstered her weapon, Nick pulled out his Motorola to dial for Brass and the paramedics.

_This day just keeps getting better, doesn't it? _

Nick had the horrible sense that it wasn't over, at all – that this CSI-obsessed killer was only just beginning his rampage of terror.

_Three of us attacked: Greg, 'Rick, Sofia. Vartann included but not the primary target. Four of us left, not counting Brass and the others who might just enter the line of fire. How many more will this guy go after – and what are the chances that he won't perfect his technique, and succeed in killing at least one of us? _


	12. Mea Culpa

Author's Note: Hey people! I apologize ONCE again for the long pause in writing. It's been one thing after another all this week. To reward your loyal perusal, I've come up with another chapter. Thanks so much for your support. Happy reading!

P.S. I know this title is the same as one of the CSI episodes - season 5, if i'm not wrong? But i can't resist using it. Every title i use corresponds to something in that chapter, and isn't randomly selected or irrelevant. So forgive me for it. :)

* * *

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. _

"Would you please cut that out?" Warrick snapped.

_Thump. Thump. _

"How long is this going to take?" Greg replied breezily, sounding not at all offended by Warrick's less-than-cordial attitude. "I'm hungry."

"You sound like a kid." Warrick rested his elbow on the armrest of the straight-backed chair he was seated in. The hospital waiting room was not exactly a place where he wanted to be, alone with Greg Sanders and with his leg stitched and bandaged to high heaven. The painkillers he had taken were rendering him drowsy, and he wanted to close his eyes on this case and sleep for a month. The pain of his leg was more than he had let on, and he suspected the paramedics and the doctor were informing Vega as such.

Greg tapped his foot on the floor again. Then, as if he finally comprehended Warrick's irritation, the young man stopped the annoying gesture, much to Warrick's relief. To him, Greg would always seem like a kid instead of an adult – one of the things that the CSIs all loved and hated about him.

"Aren't you tired?" Warrick mumbled, sounding too much like a petulant child to even his own ears for his liking.

"'It is only our bad temper that we put down to being tired or worried or hungry; we put our good temper down to ourselves,'" Greg quoted with a flourish. His lean, handsome face was innocent enough that it looked positively cherubic, and his bandaged arm didn't seem to be swaying him from releasing pent-up energy.

_Where does he get his attitude from? He's like the Energizer bunny on caffeine. _

"I give up," Warrick answered drily. "Enlighten me."

"C.S. Lewis," Greg replied with an obvious _ta-dah! _in his voice.

Warrick groaned loudly enough that Cavaliere looked over at the two CSIs, and grinned. "Spare me, Sanders. I want to hit the sack, and you aren't helping any."

Greg's face turned serious. "You'll get enough sleep when you're dead."

_Gee, what's with the 180-degree about-face? _Warrick forced his eyelids open and looked straight at Greg, his expression speaking volumes.

Greg turned away soberly and sighed. "Nothing, 'Rick, nothing. Just trying to needle you, I suppose."

Warrick smirked humorlessly, schooling his temper. He gave up trying to sleep and rubbed his fingers across his eyes, massaging the lids before he opened them again and focused them once more on Greg.

"You're really eaten up over this case, aren't you?"

Greg turned his baby blues on Warrick and propped his chin up on his hand, facing the older CSI as he similarly rested his elbow on the armrest in a classic pose of boredom and disinterest. That attitude was not mirrored in Greg's face; an ancient look of weariness and worry was written all over his youngish features.

"Of course I am. What sort of question is that?" The kid didn't wait for Warrick to finish. "I throw off Grissom's schedule by that whole acid-in-my-cap business, and now everything's messed up. I wanted the chance to prove Grissom right about my abilities as a CSI, and now he's going to think that I'm some sort of screw-up."

Warrick blew out his breath and fought exhaustion. "See, Greg, that's where you're wrong. Grissom's worried about you – about all of us. He doesn't see you as having messed up. _This _guy, the one that's after us, he's the one that Grissom will go after – and Brass will be right behind him, to take a piece out of the moron that dared to attack us in the first place."

Greg didn't look convinced. He settled back quietly in the chair with a sigh, self-reproach etched clearly in his expression.

Warrick rubbed the bridge of his nose. He realized that he was starting to know Greg a whole lot better. The young man really was like a kid most of the time, craving fun and games, always peppy and energetic and ready to please. Still waters, however, ran deep, and Warrick had to admit to himself that Greg had more to him than met the eye. He was like an onion with more layers to him than were obvious at first sight. Much as he disliked eating humble pie, Warrick knew he had made a mistake in jumping to conclusions when it came to Greg.

However, deep down, Greg seemed to see Grissom as a sort of father figure, and the others on the graveyard and swing shifts as brothers and sisters. To the only child that he was, Nick, Catherine, Sara, Warrick and Sofia were his role models and mentors; Grissom was the most highly esteemed of them all, to the youngster.

Another thing was that everyone seemed to be irritated by Greg's humor and wit at times. What Warrick was beginning to understand was that Greg used that humor and wit as a defense mechanism – that he used jokes and witty statements to deal with the horrors that he saw on the job. Warrick remembered, with a great deal of amusement that alleviated his drained state, how Greg played pranks on the other lab techs, challenged them in bets, and turned the DNA lab into his playground when he wasn't yet in the field.

He had been the best DNA lab tech ever – Warrick couldn't think of someone who could beat him in delivering timely results and successes to the CSI team on a silver platter. Besides this, Greg did all the small and dirty jobs as a CSI Level One without much complaint, and as best as he could – which meant for top-notch work.

_Number one attitude to go along with that genius-level IQ and EQ_, he thought, raising an eyebrow in silent admiration.

Greg drummed his fingers on the armrest and then tapped his foot experimentally on the floor again, as if to test Warrick's reaction. He peeked at Warrick out of the corner of his eye, like a kid waiting to see how mom or dad would behave.

"Here," the lanky African-American finally told him, catching the young CSI's attention. "Get something from the vending machine on me." He tossed several quarters in Greg's direction; as if revitalized, Greg caught the quarters one by one, plucking them from the air, and grinned that cute-kid smile.

"Thanks, 'Rick."

Warrick didn't hide his own smile as Greg bounced out of his seat and hurried down the hallway towards the vending machine. Then his eyes went to the two detectives that stood discussing something in low voices with the paramedics and the other hospital personnel. As if sensing Warrick's discomfort, Vega glanced up and raised two fingers – _two more minutes, pal, and we're out of here. _

Warrick nodded assent and stretched. Then he flexed his leg and winced. The painkillers didn't fully take away the sharp sting of the deep stab wound on his leg. He remembered how the six-inch blade had gone almost clean through the muscle of his thigh. If he concentrated enough, he could still feel cold steel in his leg and hot blood running down his skin.

When the two CSIs and the two detectives left, maybe he could persuade Cavaliere to stop at a bar or something. Warrick didn't drink a lot, but right now he could use some hard liquor to drown his memories and the recent events. Today wasn't a day that he wanted to stay sober; forgetting would be so much easier.

Too bad the others couldn't be so lucky. Warrick hoped that they would be safer than he and Greg had been.

The way things were going, however, he wouldn't hold his breath.


	13. Seed of Chucky

Author's note: Sorry for the stupendously short chapter today because it's a hectic Sunday! More soon, I promise. Thanks for all the fantastic reviews and your input! You guys always make my day. Enjoy!

* * *

It always depressed Al Robbins when the body of a child ended up on his table. The morgue was a cold, clinical, sterilized icebox – not the place for a little girl or boy to be. Kids belonged out in the sunshine with their toys and their parents, not dead as a doornail on a slab. As he looked down at the young girl, long blond hair limp like a lifeless flag, eyelids shut over tiny eyes, something in him seemed to shrivel up.

The door to the morgue swung open, and in strode Catherine Willows, stylish in scoop-neck silk blouse under a leather jacket and dark pants.

"Hey, Doc."

"Hello, Catherine," Robbins greeted, staying where he was on the left of the small body and waiting for her to walk to the right. When she did so, her eyes flicked to Tiffany Withers. He thought the hooded look in those large blue orbs, in all likelihood, matched the one in his own brown eyes.

"She's just four," the woman whispered. Her eyes glimmered as she stared down sadly at the child covered to the neck by the sheet. Robbins flashed back on his own Three Musketeers; the thought of any of them succumbing to death like this, life and future both prematurely terminated, was like a blow to the larynx. For a few seconds, he and Catherine didn't speak, taking a few precious seconds to wallow in their "what-if" thoughts. No need to ask who the CSI was thinking about – her own headstrong Lindsay.

Finally Catherine sighed, and in that moment put aside the gloomy thoughts, turning to Robbins.

"What killed her?"

Robbins lifted the chenille sheet and pointed at the single stab wound to the girl's front, where the blade had exited. "The knife entered her back, piercing the left kidney, inducing instant shock. When the knife was withdrawn, death by exsanguination would have been quick." He sighed, feeling his stomach churn with queasiness and disgust. Terrible way to die, especially for a child; how bloodthirsty did a guy have to be to murder a kid?

"It entered her back?" Catherine questioned, raising well-plucked brows. "Warrick thought it might have been the front."

Robbins shook his head matter-of-factly. "No, the incision and angle of the wound, along with the size of the wound itself, comparing the back and front of the body, shows that Tiffany Withers had her back to whoever – or whatever – killed her." He deliberately corrected himself grammatically to hint to Catherine what he already had heard – that the robot-doll might have been the one to actually _commit _the murder of the child and the attempted murder of Warrick.

Catherine seemed to be able to read his mind. She nodded wryly. "Yeah, our Chucky may have been the culprit, right?"

"So how do you arrest the doll?" Robbins quipped. "It's not like you can exorcise the spirit of Charles Lee Ray from _this _Chucky."

Catherine smiled, and it was not a happy one. "Simple. We arrest the _real _Charles Lee Ray behind the doll. Is there any trace evidence you collected?"

Robbins reached for the evidence bindle he'd placed on the instrument tray. "Just red and blue fibers – same as the ones Warrick collected. That's it, I'm afraid."

Catherine tucked the bindle into her pocket. "Fair enough. See you later, Doc."

"Where're you going?" he called, as she started to stride for the door, her dancer's walk apparent even after all these years.

"Tiffany Withers is Owen Withers' daughter," she explained, pausing at the open door to look back at him with a _duh! _expression on her heart-shaped face. "Grissom's at Layout, so it's up to me to interview him on my own." Her eyes were weary. "I think he'll want to stop by down here after the interview, Doc, so you might have to wait around a bit. Sorry for that."

Robbins shrugged. "It's okay." He meant it, too. Compared with the grieving relatives who'd just lost their child, brother, sister, mother or father, taking some overtime was a walk in the park. It was on days like these, however, that he would head home as soon as possible in order to spend time with his family.

After all, there was no time like the present – and you never knew what tomorrow would bring. New chances, new opportunities, new acquaintances – or, the lack thereof.

Catherine waited another second to flash him a brief smile that had a little of her spunk back in it, and then she vanished.

Robbins turned his gaze and attention back to Tiffany Withers. His mind roved over the unfortunate demise of the little girl, and over the CSIs that he was so fond of. He never told them how much they meant to him as colleagues and friends, but they were up there with his wife and kids in terms of value to him.

The longer these cases dragged, the worse the toll taken on the men and women that were more like his brothers, sisters and children than anything else. Such cases cost them time, strength, and humanity; drained away their reserves and their energy and their spark of life. Robbins certainly hoped that justice could be served to this maniac turning their lives upside down – because if there was anyone that deserved to see that, it would be the unique, talented individuals in Gilbert Grissom's team of CSIs.


	14. Where Is the Love?

Catherine rushed into the visitors' area just in time to see Brass directing Owen Withers down the hallways of the station and into the room. Being one of the dayshift, Owen Withers probably didn't need to be shown the way, but then again, he was in a highly emotional state of mind. When informed of the death of a loved one, a person could lose both perspective and focus. Even one who saw death on the job every day.

Owen Withers definitely looked it. The mountain-sized man, usually so cheerful and amiable as Catherine had always seen him, was a miserable heap in rumpled clothes that looked as if they'd just been pulled out of the dryer to be worn. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his gaze was downcast. He shuffled instead of striding, and his body language bespoke mourning all the way. Catherine pitied the man almost instantly, and one look at Brass told her the police captain felt the same way. As the day shift CSI settled down on a chair with a creak, Catherine took the seat next to him, Brass plumping himself opposite Withers.

"Catherine," the man croaked in pathetic greeting, his voice an unhappy rasp.

"Owen," Catherine acknowledged with a solemn nod that Brass mirrored. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"I just saw Tiffy at the morgue." Tears leaked out of his eyes, as if the little girl's name was a trigger that released another dam of grief.

Catherine felt her heartstrings tugged as she put herself mentally in the man's shoes. What if the same happened to Lindsay? She wouldn't know what to do if that ever happened. Despite mother and daughter butting heads almost all the time now that Lindsay was in her teenage years, Catherine knew that her daughter was her whole life – and she had the emotional assurance that Lindsay loved her as well.

"Owen, I know this is hard, but we have to ask you some questions." Brass' voice was quiet to soften the obvious blow of the inquiry, but Withers only nodded.

"Shoot. I know the protocol." His voice stumbled over the last sentence, eyes bright with tears, but he looked straight at Brass, cueing the police captain to begin.

"What was Tiffany doing at a toy store without an adult with her?"

Withers' face contorted. "Our house was just a five-minute walk down. We live right next to the store, and Tiffany and I know Marty Jacks well. She's walked down a few times by herself already. When I was sleeping, at home, you know, after the shift. She's a good girl. So young and yet so grown up. I had promised I'd take her after school, but I was just too tired after maxing out on overtime. Tiffy wanted me to rest – got back home on the school bus, found me asleep. She left me a note on the kitchen table." More tears welled up. "I promised my sister I'd take good care of her. And now look at what's happened!"

Catherine grew alert. "Your sister?" she interjected quickly.

"Tiffy's my niece," Withers explained wearily. "Orphaned – my sister and her husband were in a car accident. I'm the only relative Tiffy has left, so I got custody."

"When was this accident?" Brass questioned.

"A year ago. Tiffy was only three; not that old to understand all that much."

Catherine felt a faint smile begin on her lips as she thought of Lindsay at that precocious age. "Don't be so sure."

Withers snorted and sniffed simultaneously. It was almost comic. Almost.

Brass picked up the line of questioning. "Do you know what time she went to the store?"

"About four? I'm not too sure. She came into my room to say goodbye and left pretty quickly – something about wanting to get a toy she'd been craving for ages." The last statement brought a fresh round of tears.

Catherine slammed a lid on the sentimentality and sympathy that were crawling out of her heart and instead tried to remain subjective. That time coincided with their estimations when taking into account the surveillance tapes and Marty Jacks' statement.

"Do you happen to have any enemies, anyone who might want to cross you or bring you down in any way possible?" she asked after two seconds of silence.

Withers rubbed his wrist over his eyes to dry them. When he replaced his hand in his lap, his eyes were dull and lost. "I don't know."

"Think," Brass urged. "Anyone who might have tried to cause you trouble, or perhaps someone that was keeping tabs on Tiffany, you know, watching her, that sort of thing? A meter man loitering around the house? Mailman?"

Withers bit his lip and stared off into the distance. After a moment, he mumbled something that Catherine didn't quite get the first time.

"What's that, Owen?" she pressed, firmly but not forcefully.

"Probably nothing, but some guy I don't know, some _bum _kept harassing me a few days ago. I was out with Tiffy at the park. He was following us around and yelling out about how Tiffy was his kid. Or something. I turned on him and made him back off. There's no way that Tiffy is _his _kid – I have the records to prove that my sister and brother-in-law made that sweet girl all by themselves."

"You know this guy?" Brass immediately pushed. "You got his name, a description of him? Maybe he tried to take Tiffy and freaked when she made a fuss."

Withers' face fell so dramatically that Catherine almost feared he was losing it big-time. He shook his head and then bent his head and began to cry again, large shoulders heaving, ham-sized hands curled into fists as if he wanted to punch something. Patiently she and Brass waited for him to compose himself once more and continue.

It didn't take long. Withers swallowed hard, and lifted his face again. "I really, really don't know. I was all focused on getting Tiffy away from that psycho. With my size, I don't get a lot of that – everyone's just too scared of me where I go." He frowned, brow crinkling into lines as he thought. "Forties. Bald. Dark eyes, pinched face. Kind of big – not as big as me, though. Sorry, that's all I can summon up. And I can't think of anyone else just yet."

Catherine watched as Brass scribbled it down quickly in his chicken scratching handwriting. She lulled into thought as Withers began to reminisce about his niece. From the way that Brass' eyes were becoming far away, she could tell that the interview was close to being over – if it wasn't already.

Great. So maybe a guy baked on something had killed Tiffany Withers. What about Warrick and Chucky – was _that _an incident isolated from the Withers case? Or was the CSI killer attacking not just criminalists from the graveyard shift and swing shift, but day shift too? Was this man or woman directing anger at the LVPD and its crime lab?

If so, they were going to be in a whole lot of trouble before the day was out. Already she could feel the migraine beginning behind her eyes.

Then again, Owen Withers had it worse. Catherine supposed she had to count herself lucky.

For now.


	15. A Bunch of Fives

Author's Note: I want to apologize a hundred times over. I've just had my church's YSA/SA convention and all my friends keep booking me for outings before I leave to go overseas to study. So I've just been SOOOO busy. Trust me, I'll still update when I'm studying. Already before this one's done I've come up with a very good idea for a Nick fanfic...but I'll keep you in suspense. For now. Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

Nick strode down the hallway after having hurriedly parked his car and entered the station. His mind roved over the events that had just gone over badly with Grissom. The supervisor had ordered him back to the station _immediately. _

"But Sofia and Vartann –" Nick had begun, pacing the corridor outside the hospital ward at the University Medical Center, phone glued to his ear.

"They'll be fine." For once, Grissom didn't sound convincing. "I want you back here, where we'll all be under police protection. Brass is alerting all units to remain vigilant. The day shift has come in and they'll also be well guarded. I don't want you to be the exception, Nicky."

Left with nothing to argue, Nick had complied. It wasn't like he wanted to go around with a target drawn on the back of his head, either.

"Watch where you're going, idiot!"

The hard impact of a squared shoulder slamming into his own muscular one, and the harsh voice, raised in anger and hostility, brought Nick out of his thoughtful reverie. The shove sent him off-kilter, and he nearly pitched against the wall before pivoting on the ball of his foot and regaining his balance.

Benjamin Hill, the day shift supervisor, was standing right in front of him with an unpleasant expression on his rugged face. His eyebrows sloped down in a sharp V over his cold eyes, and the sneer on his thin lips told Nick that he was primed for a fight.

"Sorry," he began apologetically, trying to back out of a battlefield, when Hill leaned in towards him, invading his personal space. Instinctively, Nick retreated a step.

Hill seemed to take that as a personal affront. The look on his face became even more twisted and ugly. When he spoke, it was in a hiss.

"You guys just seem to be everywhere, aren't you?"

Nick cocked his head. Confusion and wariness warred within him as he made eye contact with Hill. "I don't know what you mean," he replied evenly.

"All of you on graveyard and swing. You really think you guys are the salt of the earth, don't you? That everyone else is inferior to you, and that you're the boss of us?"

Nick raised his eyebrows. The urge to fight back was overpowering, and the events of the past few hours were taking their toll. It was already midnight, well into the graveyard shift and long past the swing shift, and Nick had never been more exhausted or felt more down. Now this moron was stirring the vat and letting the engative emotions bubbling in Nick boil to the surface. "I never said that. _We _never said that or did anything to that effect. So I have no idea what you're talking about."

"So is that why you dragged in my man for a prolonged interrogation?" Hill roared, the veins in his temples and neck throbbing, his face filling to a dangerous red. "He just lost his _niece_, damn it! What, you think he killed that little girl, the kid he adored so much, just for _kicks_? _Owen Withers is not a killer. _If anything, I'd put my money on _you _as the killer! How have you survived while your buddies are going down?"

Nick lost it then. Paying no heed to the cops and CSIs turning in their direction, he got right in Hill's face, anger churning through him like lava. The memories of the others on the team and the collaterals – cops and detectives like Vartann plus civilians – exposed to danger, burned hot and fast.

"We follow the evidence," he retorted in an icy tone. "Nobody knows where the wind will blow, do they, Hill? Do _you_?"

"Son of a –" Hill went for Nick's throat, moving so quickly that Nick was caught off guard. Thick fingers wrapped around Nick's neck, squeezing hard enough to cut off his air. At the same time, Hill used his grip on Nick's neck to slam him back into the wall, hard enough to crack the glass of the bulletin board. Nick felt several slivers pierce his scalp and neck, not deeply enough to be serious. However, it stopped becoming a priority when Hill constricted his hold, fury contorting his face. At the same time, the supervisor drove both his elbows into Nick's arms, keeping Nick's hands from clawing at Hill's grip.

"_Break it up!_" A familiar voice tore through the hubbub, and several LVPD officers leapt forward to obey Jim Brass' command, ripping the offending hands from Nick's throat. As Nick gasped in air, his mind whirring at the temporary lack of oxygen, Hill was pulled away by several police officers, and Brass went straight to Nick's side. The police captain's usually ironic expression was replaced with concern and frustration.

"You okay, Nick?"

Nick doubled over, coughing hard as air wheezed into his bruised windpipe. Brass was all that kept him from falling over. Finally he stood, and nodded, his lungs still burning in pain.

Brass left a supporting arm on Nick's back and turned to Benjamin Hill. The CSI supervisor's eyes and expression were feral, and Nick couldn't help but glare back. A squirming loop of uncertainty, however, twisted within the pit of his stomach.

The grim look on Brass' face was just as frightening; voice frigid, as he addressed Hill. "You've got a lot to explain about what just happened, buddy."

Hill only continued to stare at Nick, the promise of unquenchable rage still in those carrion eyes. Without another word, he freed himself from the hands of the police officers and stalked off in the opposite direction. The sounds of his footsteps dying away were like a mantra – _I'll get you, I'll get you next time, see if I don't…_

Brass waved the other cops off, who began to obediently disperse. Several seconds had passed before Nick and Brass were left standing in that same spot.

"What just happened, Nicky?" Brass questioned in a low voice, watching the hallway where Hill had disappeared with slitted eyes.

Nick shook his head, still catching his breath. The sudden visual of Sofia's bruised neck after the CSI killer's attack on her flashed into his head like a promise. One after the other, the memories of the attacks directed at Greg and Warrick and Vartann as well zipped through his head. As he though of Hill's ferocity and aggressiveness, along with the animosity directed at him, Grissom and the others, Nick felt as if he'd swallowed a red-hot poker whole.

_What _did _just happen? _

"I…" His voice died in his throat at the realization that his thoughts were formulating – and in a direction that he found no pleasure in, despite all evidence to the contrary. The puzzle pieces were fitting together far more easily than he would have expected or liked. Nausea began building in his stomach.

"I don't know."


	16. Where It Stops, Nobody Knows

Author's Note: Sorry! I believe in keeping you guys in suspense. :) I've come up with a million new ideas so I'm trying to finish this one ASAP and move on!

* * *

Nick sat at the layout room nursing a cup of coffee. The bruises on his neck didn't hurt all that much now. At least that was a mercy – they were having precious few of those for now. Grissom had chewed him out, but not much, over provoking Benjamin Hill with his words; however, even the reserved supervisor had to agree with Brass over the attack that was way out of the blue and character for any CSI.

Brass had voiced his opinion about Hill being the killer; Grissom had, as usual, offered his opinion against formulating theories.

"We have to focus on the evidence, Jim. Theories are nice, but that's all they'll ever be until they're proven right."

Seeing that he would lose this argument, Brass left – but not before trading significant looks with Nick. The look said it all. _I just bet it's Hill. _

Now Grissom, Catherine, Sara and Nick were the only ones in the layout room. Warrick, Greg and Sofia were under police protection, and the lab techs were maxing out on overtime. Ecklie had given the go-ahead because of the risk posed to all Las Vegas CSIs – for once not fighting Grissom on the subject.

"Okay, let's start from scratch here," Grissom finally announced, as Nick drained the coffee and felt it burn down his gullet to his stomach. It was the only thing in there right now – he hadn't had the time to eat. Neither had any of the others.

"Before we concentrate on Sara's 405, Warrick's 419 and 420Z, and Nick's 419, let's clear up the air about the other cases first. How are we on the 426, Catherine?"

Catherine sighed. "You know my report. We're running the prints through AFIS right now; Mia is due to give me the DNA results on the semen and skin samples just about any time soon. I'm leaving the cuts to be matched with the ring snapshots by day shift. The cops are ready to start looking for the guy when we get a name and photo."

Nick felt queasy the moment she invoked the mention of day shift. Irritation was like an itch he couldn't scratch, and it mingled with the uneasiness he felt over Benjamin Hill. The guy was bad news, and it bothered Nick, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

"Since Sofia's not here, I'll have to speak for the 420," Grissom added quickly, falling into momentum with complete ease. "Good thing her attacker didn't even destroy the evidence in any way – shows that he was after her instead." A slight frown crossed his face. Nick didn't think anyone noticed until he spotted Sara, out of the corner of his eye. The smile dropped quickly from her face and she looked away from Grissom.

"Mark Tower was killed with a blade that matches a tool of some sort, because it wasn't sharp enough as a knife. Mia's extracting the DNA from the dandruff found on our vic – we think our killer may have had bad hair, because Tower doesn't suffer from dandruff. The vic had a pattern – he would open the door every morning at about six and wait for the paper boy to tip him. Someone who watched the house could've gauged it."

"What's the deal with the sprinklers and the water supply?" Catherine questioned quickly. "I heard the water kind of messed up the crime scene a little."

Grissom sighed. If he noticed Sara and Nick's silence, he gave no indication of it. Nick didn't know why Sara was being quiet; he himself didn't feel like talking through his bruised windpipe. "Sofia found several utilities bills dealing with water supply, all with the name of the same utilities guy on it. Martin Finch. Our friendly handyman had written a phone number, most likely his, and a flirty little message on two of the bills. Mia's running the epithelials Sofia found on the bloody tissues, as well as matching the blood to Mark Tower, and Brass is bringing in Finch right now. Or trying to, anyway."

"Mia's a trooper," Catherine said appreciatively.

As one, the two supervisors turned to Sara, who began talking about her 405 without being asked. "Our vic's Darren Fellows, lives alone, no wife or kids or girlfriend or even acquaintances. He quit his job sometime ago, and the neighbors aren't helpful – they know nuts about this guy. His house was like a pigsty, and his life's a mess. I didn't find anything incriminating in his house. Epithelials on the gun and fingerprints match his. I'm going to go over his credit card receipts, bank statements, everything, to see what I'm missing. Maybe we could hand this over to the day shift, too. As soon as I go over the house one more time, I will."

"Good," Grissom answered, sounding pleased. "Do that. Nick?"

Nick was only listening right until now with one ear and half his attention. He was trying to hold onto a slippery thought, the thought that kept evading him. Startled, he got up and nearly knocked over his cup. "Yeah, sorry."

_Focus, Stokes. Focus! _

He outlined the case, thinking about the lack of leads. Murder weapon – wire garrote – was gone, along with the woman's blond hair that had been shaved off completely – eyebrows, hair, and so on. Nick had only presumed she was blond because of the fairness of her complexion. Her finger digits were gone, teeth as well, removed surgically by their Mengele killer. Her blood was no use to them, and if they checked it for DNA Nick knew that none of it would match the killer's. The trees where the vic had been found had yielded no trace evidence or other evidence of any kind. No tattoos or identifying marks. Dead end…

What had she been doing there in the first place? Nick had been looking for car treads, but there hadn't been any what for, or at least, not that he'd seen. It wasn't like she'd dropped down out of nowhere, or swam from Lake Mead onto shore where her killer had been waiting. How had she gone to her resting place, then? Why had she been killed? The questions were piling up and they were frustrating Nick to no end.

Grissom started talking about Warrick's case, but Nick tuned him almost all the way out. He knew the details. Catherine had allowed him to read the case file, and he'd devoured everything on the two cases.

This sucked. Someone was after them all, and they couldn't do a thing but wait for him to try and eliminate them, one by one. And there was no way in heaven he wouldn't achieve success with any one of them.

"Day shift's here," Sara warned. It was the only thing she'd said apart from talking about her case, and Nick glanced up.

Benjamin Hill was walking down the hallway with his shift team. As they passed the layout room, his carrion eyes zeroed in on Nick and glared at him before flicking away callously. Owen Withers was slow in step with grief, eyes still red. When he spotted Nick, he managed a weak smile and shook his head as he passed. Beth Newman was silent, avoiding Nick's gaze; Ernest McIntire stared at Nick and then his eyes turned to slits. He held Nick's eyes until he walked out of view.

Nick felt a shiver run through him for some inexplicable reason.

"The day shift'll be taking care of Catherine's case, Sofia's case and the bank robbery case from this morning," Grissom prattled on, clueless to Nick's feelings. "Sara, I want you to check up on your case and then, if there's no connection to ours, hand it over to days. We need all hands on deck."

"Right," she replied, barely able to hold onto a ghost of a smile. "I'll get onto it then." Abruptly she strode out of the room.

Grissom looked like he just connected two and two – _finally_. Without preamble, he walked out right after her.


	17. Reading the Riot Act

Author's Note: Sticking true to GSR as in the series. BTW I was just wondering when exactly Sara and Grissom would hook up for real (everyone says it's in the 6th season) but I wanted to lay the groundwork. So to me, their relationship starts RIGHT at the beginning of the 6th season - AKA there has to be some action leading up from the end of the 5th season, right? ;) Enjoy.

* * *

Sara stormed away from the layout room, biting her tongue until she felt blood there and doing her best to keep the tears from springing to her eyes. Like Nick, she couldn't exactly keep her feelings under duress, and if anyone saw her right now, she was going to be in deep trouble. What was she going to say? _Sorry, I'm just upset because my boss cares about another woman more than he does me and there's nothing I can do about it? Even though no one's ever going to love him more than I already do?_

From there, it would all go downhill, and land her in the loony bin. Sara didn't wonder if there was a straitjacket and padded cell lying around in wait for her – loving Grissom was going to drive her crazy soon. Especially since he was so, so oblivious!

"Sara!"

Oh, speak of the devil himself. Grissom was skidding quickly out of the layout room, following her long strides as she moved down the corridor. Of all the people, she didn't want to see him most.

"What, Grissom?" Her voice was cool, and she didn't let up her pace – not that he couldn't keep up anyway. He was stubborn when he wanted to find out something, she'll give him that at least.

"Are you okay?" His own voice was tentative, as if trying to sooth a spooked cat.

The analogy made her mad. "I'm just fine, thanks."

Grissom's silence told her volumes about his disbelief in that profound statement.

Sara felt her emotions rising to a boil. Sure, she was upset that Sofia was wounded, too – along with Greg and Warrick and Vartann. But did Grissom have to bring up Sofia's name right now, invoking it when he hadn't even mentioned Greg and Warrick too? She knew, deep down, that he liked Sofia. A lot. The feeling was mutual with the other woman, which made it even worse.

And Sara herself? She didn't even know where she stood with Grissom. She knew he cared for her a great deal – just as much as he cared, probably, for Nick, Catherine, Warrick, Greg, Brass, Robbins, and many others besides. That was just the problem – Sara didn't want it platonic at all, and Grissom didn't seem able to look beyond that.

She opened her mouth to dismiss his concern. Instead, something entirely different came out of her throat. "How's Sofia?" Even to her, her voice was icy.

To her utter dismay but complete lack of surprise, Grissom looked thoughtful. "She'll be okay. Some bruises and scratches, along with a little shock, but she'll be fine. She wanted to go back but I suggested the doctor take a look at her – I don't want anything to happen to her."

Sara made a sound of dismissal in her throat and continued to walk, keeping her back to Grissom as she felt her heart twist painfully in her chest. "Fantastic. See you later, Grissom."

There was a second of silence, and then Grissom called, authority clearly in his voice. "Sara, stop right there."

Resisting the urge to disobey, Sara felt her feet freeze. Nonetheless, she still refused to look at him. If she did, she knew she would melt or implode or explode, and that wasn't really such a hot idea.

Grissom moved up right behind her. "What's on your mind?"

The wariness and concern in his voice were damaging. Sara shut her eyes to try and cut it out. "Nothing, I _told _you. You want me to check out the db, I'm there."

Grissom tapped around her until he was facing her directly. What she had heard in his voice was mirrored in his face. "Sara, don't lie to me –"

"Then maybe you shouldn't play with me!" she snapped back. When she realized what she had said, she quickly started on the move, giving him a wide berth as she went for the exit, but Grissom was faster. He reached out, sidestepping her, and grabbed her by the elbows to keep her from running away. His eyes were a magnetic brown that she couldn't look away from, and yet she couldn't meet them at the same time – they penetrated far too deeply for her defenses to manage.

"What do you mean?" he asked at last. There wasn't any anger or offense in his voice, merely curiosity and confusion. _Scientific curiosity. What am I now, a bug? _The thought didn't even infuriate her now; Sara was shocked by the hurt she felt. Grissom could spare his insects any degree of affection, but he couldn't even give it to the one who loved him infinitely more than arthropods ever would. More than any woman ever would – and that included Sofia Curtis.

The worst part was, he already was aware of what she felt.

She looked at him, the expression in her eyes too weary for her years, watching him connect the dots and finally 'get it'.

"Is this about Sofia?" he proceeded cautiously.

Sara's emotions suddenly exploded. She broke his grip, moving out into the parking lot and waiting for him to follow her. The moment the doors of the station slipped shut, she let him have it.

"What do you think?! Grissom, I know this is utterly selfish of me, seeing how she's the one in the hospital, but I think it's justified in this case. You haven't even talked that much about Greg or Warrick or Vartann; just about Sofia, Sofia, Sofia. Until Nick got to the station and Catherine got back from ballistics, trace and DNA, you were yakking off to me about Sofia and how you hoped she was all right. And it's not like she suffered a whole lot. She even got Nick to rescue her." A dry laugh emerged from her throat, and she cleared it to go on. "For Pete's sake, Grissom, why don't you just twist the knife a little bit more?"

Grissom's mouth was hanging open, as if he was waiting to speak in his defense, but Sara knew he had nothing to say.

"I even wonder sometimes, Grissom. If I were in her shoes, would you care as much? Would you show it? Would you be as worried about me as you are about her? Or would you just be worried about a _coworker_?" The word was acid in her mouth, and she spat it out with as much energy as she could muster. "And you are surprised why Sofia and I can't stand each other sometimes. Even _she's _aware of it, Grissom. _You _knew how I felt from the start, how I still feel. Yet you've done nothing about it. You go out with other women, but I'm still here. What am I, Grissom? What am I? Chopped liver?"

Her words died in her mouth. Grissom looked like he had been sucker punched, but Sara knew she had to speak her mind completely. Get everything out in the open, and see what he did about it.

"I think you know how I feel, Grissom. Now it's up to you what you're going to do about it, because the way things are going, I might not be around long enough for you to get your head out of the sand. At the rate this guy's going, he'll probably kill us all. It was only luck and circumstance that saved Greg and Warrick – he wasn't around to do the job on his own. Sofia and Vartann would've bit the bullet without Nick."

She cocked her head as she felt the first tears pool on her lashes. "I wonder, Grissom, how I would fare against him. But would you even care?"

Sara didn't give him a chance to speak. Thank goodness her stuff was already loaded in her car. Without waiting any longer, she stalked away and moved to her car, slamming the door after her with more force than was necessary. Barring the saltwater running down her cheeks, she threw the engine into reverse and barreled out, leaving Grissom standing behind in the lot.

She didn't look back. If she had, she would have seen him, mouth agape, expression as if someone had hit him with a truck, his emotions and thoughts conflicting with no indication where the balance would tip.

* * *

_What? _

_I know I didn't just imagine what she said. _

_She's right, and I know it. I've never given her the attention due because I was scared. It's easier to go out with the blondes for a meal and a good time. They're easy to analyze and pin down – most of them like me just for how I look and my gentleman personality. They're pretty faces, and I appreciate that a lot. _

_But she's different. This intelligent, beautiful brunette is completely unique from all those blondes out there. Terri and Sofia, for example, are all sweet and demure around me – although they're definitely smart and brave. Have you ever seen Sofia with a gun? That's saying something. _

_But Sara Sidle? She's a whole new ball game. All soft curves and hard corners, she's sassy and spunky at the same time, her courage and optimism surpassed only by her heart. She's had a terrible past and many skeletons in her closet, and yet she's shown that she can deal with them and more. She's displayed time and time again that refreshing uniqueness, that Sidle personality that I like. A lot. _

_That's why it's so difficult. Still waters run far deeper than I've ever ventured into with her. When I try to put her into a box as I do other women, she throws me a fast curve that has me staggering once more. The scientist in me wants to analyze her and pin her down, but she always gets back up and fights. That's why I'm so uncertain and afraid. I've relied more on my science than almost anything else in my life, and my heart has never factored into the equation like this. Not the way she's asking me to, right now. _

_This challenge is something that I can't forget. She's reached the end of her tether, and I know it. She knows it. Now it's up to me to do something about this. If I don't, I risk losing her forever. But if I do, I'll mess up and then I _will _lose her. _

_Damned if I do, damned if I don't. _

_My head hurts – probably no less than my heart, or hers, is bleeding right now. I turn and slowly reenter the station. The others will be wondering what's going on, and I have no wish to tell them. _

_This is something I must do on my own. _


	18. Red Herring

Author's Note: Your reviews rock my world. Thanks for your support! This chapter's gonna clear up a lot of your questions - although, read between the lines, because not everything is as it seems. For real!

* * *

He was seated cross-legged in the lotus position when the sounds of an SUV screeching to a stop outside the house reached his ears. He recognized the angry footsteps that were audible right after the car door slammed, and the grim smile that came to his lips was also familiar to him. He always associated it with the other man.

When the man outside rapped twice on the door with his knuckles, the Devil reached out for the remote control at his side. He was already expecting his guest. As he pressed a series of buttons on the remote, the door lock clicked back into the frame and the door slid open – seemingly of its own accord.

Benjamin Hill strode into the room. The sharp lines that had been carved into his face from negative emotions were deep. The seated man only smirked as he remembered that almost all those lines were caused by his actions and their repercussions on Hill.

"You told me you were going to kill them and be done with it," Hill barked, as the door slammed shut – courtesy of the remote, as usual.

The Devil cocked his head slowly and looked up at his antagonist. "I did."

"Then why did you mess up?" Hill snarled, teeth bared like a rabid dog. The other man wondered what would happen if he threw a bone, and snorted at the image, even as Hill went into a full-blown tantrum. "You couldn't even kill Warrick Brown or Greg Sanders, with your little schemes. I told you they wouldn't work, and I was right. "

"Neither could you kill Sofia Curtis," the Devil retorted sharply. "You didn't have the backbone to silence Detective Vartann permanently, and you were stopped by Nick Stokes. You couldn't do the job yourself." His tone dripped contempt that made Hill shrink as he went on. "My toys failed because of one mistake I realize now – I wasn't there to administer the death blow in the flesh. You messed up big-time, _Benjy _– you don't control your emotions well, and you attacked Stokes the way you attacked Sofia. What makes you think that our Texan friend won't make the connection?"

Hill flapped a dismissive hand, even though he was still flushed from the other man's sharp rebuke. "He's a jock. He doesn't have the brains for it."

He snorted. "Don't underestimate him, Benjy. He stopped you, didn't he?"

Hill turned a ripe plum as the other man placed each hand on a knee, still resting in the Buddha position, and frowned in thought.

_So Nick Stokes is turning out to be a real formidable character. Time to change all that. Good thing Gil Grissom doesn't believe in the same theory that Stokes and Brass do – that Benjy is the killer. If I hate anything, it's someone taking the credit for my hard, hard work. Benjy's incompetence knows few bounds. _

_But hey – if they start suspecting him, it might be time to frame him or tie up a loose end properly…We'll have to see where the wind blows, don't we?_

"Don't you insult me," Hill snapped, loudly and harshly, and the other man glanced up at him. "I became the CSI supervisor of days for a reason."

"You kissed Conrad Ecklie's butt," the Devil answered caustically. "I could do that but I chose not to. You see, when you're in a position of prominence, Benjy, you are always in the spotlight. That's not a good place to be for someone like me – and you, my friend. I think that conclusion's coming to you, too."

The veins in Hill's forehead and neck bulged, and the vivid purple color of his face deepened as his fists clenched. The Devil rolled his eyes and raised a warning finger. "Benjy – if you stroke out, I'm not bringing you to a hospital. So just chill out."

He finally arose from the lotus position and then moved to the sideboard in the living room. Fishing around inside, he withdrew two crystal wineglasses and a bottle of '53 chardonnay. Ordinarily he didn't want to break out such an expensive wine, but he still had plans for Hill – if the man died or broke now, it wouldn't help him much. The setback might cost him time and resources he didn't want to spare.

Expertly he twisted the stainless steel corkscrew around the cap of the bottle and yanked. The moment the cork was freed, he poured a liberal amount of the wine into each glass and handed one to Hill, who seemed to have calmed down ever so slightly.

"I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't caught you all those years ago," he mentioned casually, as he took a sip of the chardonnay, appreciating the rich taste on his tongue. Hill, on the other hand, downed the contents of the glass in one gulp and grabbed the bottle to refill it. "Don't forget, Benjy, you were the one to have committed that crime. I called you on it. Your penance was to give me a helping hand whenever I required the use of one."

"My purgatory," Hill spat back at him, both venomously and resignedly.

The Devil rolled his eyes again. "Stop being so melodramatic, Benjy. You live a great life with what I give you."

"And if I get caught?" Hill swallowed the wine, his Adam's apple going up and down like an opera singer's. _Nervousness. _

"You won't be. They'll all be gone; when I'm done with Stokes and Grissom, I'll eliminate Brown and Sanders for real. Maybe Robbins and Brass as well; they're much too close to the team to do me any good."

Hill managed a ghost of a smile. "You'll never turn the women. They're much too strong and connected to the men of their team."

"Time heals all," the Devil singsonged mockingly, and laughed. "Pressure helps to build up the momentum of the healing process, too."

"What are you going to do now?" Hill questioned, his words already slurring, after a few seconds of uneasy silence on his part.

The Devil ran through his mind the points on his list to be checked off.

"I think our friend Nicholas Stokes is becoming antsy. He might just become a real problem if we're not careful. I'm going to keep an eye on him before he turns one onto me. Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom are wrapped up in their own little melodrama, and Catherine Willows is worried about both Warrick Brown and Greg Sanders. She's too off-kilter to think about Stokes right now. I think that his deadline for living is coming up sooner than I expect."

Hill changed the subject. "Why did you have to kill that kid? It's just a question," he immediately defended, as the Devil's eyes turned to slits and his head whipped around to glare at the hapless supervisor. "She was Owen Withers' niece." He kept his eyes on the Devil, trying to provoke and gauge a reaction. He got nothing that he expected.

"She wasn't his niece."

Hill's jaw dropped, and the Devil almost laughed. "Tiffany Withers is actually the daughter of one Darren Fellows and Yvonne Taylor." He cast a sidelong glance at Hill. "Benjy, you _might _remember – Darren Fellows is the victim on Sara Sidle's case."

Hill's eyes were a tad unfocused, and the Devil wondered how much exactly he would remember the next time they talked. That was fine with him, to be frank.

"And what of Yvonne Taylor?" Hill made the mistake of calling him by name at the end of the question, and the Devil reacted instantly. He jumped up, grabbing Hill's free wrist and bending it almost all the way at an unnatural angle until Hill was squawking in pain.

"I told you not to speak my name," he chided in a barely audible whisper.

Hill's eyes were watering. "All right. I won't. I apologize."

The Devil held on for a few more seconds before releasing Hill so abruptly the man stumbled backwards. Then he continued talking, as if nothing had happened and they were having tea and cookies.

"Yvonne Taylor's the woman victim on Nick Stokes' case."

Hill had to keep his jaw from falling off his face, the way things were going. The Devil thought he looked utterly ridiculous. "What –"

"That's for me to know and for you to never find out," the Devil cut him off swiftly. "Whatever it is, don't you ever go after any of them without my permission or my guidance. Do you hear me? I own you, Benjy, and in return I protect and clean up your mistakes. My agenda is of tantamount importance."

Hill nodded glumly but meekly. The Devil sighed inwardly.

_Now _would he finally get some peace?

Hill poured himself another glass, and the Devil watched him drink it down the hatch. That wine would keep Hill inebriated and out of the way; for now, the Devil had a lot to think about. His words to Hill had brought up unwanted memories.

He and Yvonne Taylor had been having an affair. Owing to his influence, she had taken her daughter and her husband's life savings and run away. Initially she had been his partner in planning the murders of Grissom and Catherine's CSI teams, completely taken in by his vigor and passion against the stars of the Crime Lab. Then she'd started having a change of heart and mind, calling his plans atrocities, and wanting to return to her husband. She still loved him, she'd claimed, but this lifestyle wasn't for her.

_That lying slut. _

Naturally, he'd gone to the man's house and killed him. Then he'd hired a babysitter for Yvonne's daughter and they'd gone out on their personal tête-à-tête – a last rendezvous, he'd dubbed it – before she left. She hadn't even expected him to slip that wire around her neck and strangle her to death. To his surprise, the Devil had felt nothing from then on – no remorse, no regrets, only anger and hatred.

After that, it was all a walk in the park. He'd gone ahead with his plans. The acid and the doll ideas had actually been Yvonne's. How like a woman, how like _her_, to spoil his plans. Because of her, he hadn't been able to kill the nigger and the kid. Because of Hill, he hadn't been able to get to the blond tart himself.

Well, there was always later.

As Yvonne's close friend, Owen Withers had taken in her child, had called her his niece and given her a home. But the Devil hated it when someone robbed him of what was rightfully his, and he had eliminated Darren and Yvonne's spawn. It was time to show Owen Withers who was the boss around here.

Meanwhile, the clock was ticking for Nicholas Parker Stokes.


	19. Now You See It

Author's Note: The next chapter is for all GSR lovers - how Sara and Grissom got together, in my opinion... ;)

* * *

Sara had gotten herself under control by the time she'd reached Darren Fellows' ramshackle house and the crime scene. With a nod and hello to the officers standing watch outside, she entered, field kit in hand, and set it down just beside the open door.

She'd gone over the photos she'd taken, and nothing seemed amiss. The guy's life was seriously trashed – but something just wasn't right. She could feel it, and to follow her instincts, she had to tear this man's life apart for real. That made her feel guilty until she reminded herself it was the only way of finding this guy's killer.

_If _he hadn't committed suicide…

Sara began from the kitchen, working her way through the dirty dishes and rubbish strewn all around. Wrinkling her nose became her only defense until she finally retrieved a sterile face mask from her kit and snapped it on over her nose and mouth. Even then, the stench was barely avoidable. The cupboards yielded nothing but chipped or cracked dishes, utensils and crockery; the fridge was full of food _way _past the expiry dates. The dishes in the sink looked days old, and untouched. The footprints on the dusty floor had already been matched by Sara to Darren Fellows himself.

The bathroom wasn't much better. The bathtub, sink and toilet were clean, and there wasn't a carpet on the tile floor. No trace evidence that Sara could nitpick; the medicine cabinet held only the basic toiletries: toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, comb, a can of shampoo and another of soap.

Sara was about to walk out of the bathroom when it hit her – the enamel surfaces of the tub, sink and toilet were _clean. _

It didn't match what she had seen in the rest of the house.

Turning back, she approached the tub and liberally applied a coat of luminol, cranking up her ALS. The ultraviolet light from the Alternative Light Source lit up the entire tub in a display of fluorescence that had to be a runner-up for a neon show on the Strip. Before she got too excited, Sara swabbed it with phenolphthalein and sighed when the liquid didn't turn dark pink. It was bleach – the killer, or Darren Fellows, had cleaned up thoroughly. The same went for the sink and the toilet, and Sara didn't find any hairs or other trace evidence caught in the drain trap.

Great. Yet _another _dead end.

Oh, well. At least they had something else – the killer had probably washed after the murder in here, and she had to go examine the drains after this. Wrinkling her nose again, she moved out into the living room.

That room was just a mess. Disgusted despite herself, Sara waded through the empty beer cans and pizza boxes on the floor, breathing through her mouth as she sifted through ancient magazines and a photo album that was practically empty save for a few pictures where Darren Fellows was photographed alone. The blank spaces in the album were like missing teeth in a mouth. Where were the rest – had the killer taken them? She snapped the camera several times, taking photographs of the album, before making a mental note to bring it back to the lab with her.

There wasn't much in the living room that she hadn't already found. With a sigh, Sara moved to the bedroom. Her eyes expertly took in the sparse, untidy space, and she looked under the bed, in the closet, between the furniture pieces – no luck. Apart from the bed and small freestanding wardrobe and a table that probably doubled as a dressing table, there was little else in the bedroom. She was about to leave when another epiphany struck her. What about behind the tiny closet, located next to the table? Things could easily be pushed behind the closet when they fell off the inner edge of the tabletop.

Calling a uniform for help, Sara puffed and heaved as she and Officer Mitchell managed to budge the clothes cupboard out just enough to reveal what Sara had been looking for, but not expecting – a velveteen bear in shades of chestnut and white.

A toy bear? Why would Darren Fellows have a toy with him? It wasn't like he had a kid, and if he was regressing back to his childhood, what was it doing all the way back there? If Sara took stock in the latter notion, he would have more of such kids' toys and furnishings around him, not stuck behind the closet. He didn't seem the sentimental type – there was nothing in his house but the bare minimum.

Once the four rooms were done, Sara bagged the bear and the album and hurried back out to her car. She had credit card and bank statements to check, and a lot of background information to go on. At the same time, she was going to bully Mia into checking up for any DNA on the bear, and get the negatives or digital copies from the photo printing shop where Darren Fellows had developed his pictures.

It wasn't much, but it was definitely more than enough for now.

* * *

Grissom felt guilty to realize that he wasn't thinking so much about the cases as he was about Sara. Talking to Benjamin Hill for the update on his case and Catherine's case, he realized that he had tuned the guy out.

"…When Cavaliere found Martin Finch and brought him back for a chat at the station, our utilities friend confessed. He wanted Mrs. Tower, and he was watching the Towers' house for her every day. When he saw Mr. Tower waiting for the paper, he made his move and took his chance, using his screwdriver to slit Mark Tower's throat. He never fixed the sprinklers and the water supply all that well because every time it broke, it gave him a chance to see Mrs. Tower again."

"A crime of obsession," Grissom contributed, directing his thoughts from Sara back to the case at hand with difficulty.

"Yes," Hill agreed amiably. Grissom watched him closely as he tried to connect this cool, reasonably pleasant man with the crazed psycho who had openly attacked Nick.

"What about Catherine's case?" he questioned, changing the subject and clearing his throat to cue Hill along. "Did you get the rapist too?"

"Mia went well with the results," Hill answered on clockwork, sounding like the know-it-all in high school and the teacher's pet. "The DNA from the skin scrapings under the vic's nails and the semen match the ex-boyfriend; the cuts inflicted on the vic from a ring matches exactly with the class ring on the guy's middle finger. He confessed after O'Riley goaded him into it." A satisfied smile made its way quickly onto the man's thin lips. "Right now the bank robbery is our only real case left."

"What about the findings from Sofia's attack?" Grissom immediately prodded, going for a surprise attack. He wondered briefly if it would get him throttled like Nick and Sofia had been. Well, he wasn't new to that kind of thing.

Hill raised an eyebrow; the only signs that told Grissom the man was unnerved and annoyed were the muscle that jumped in the man's cheek and the slight but still visible thinning of the man's lips. "My team's on that, too. But this guy is good; that's why we're not finding anything yet. That's the reason that I say the bank robbery is our only _real _case left."

Grissom looked at him squarely. "I see."

Hill continued to meet Grissom's eyes, and Grissom spotted contempt and irritation there that was all for him. No, not just for him – for the rest of the team, too.

"How's the Texan?" Hill suddenly inquired, going for the jugular.

Grissom knew who he was talking about, and his throat went dry as his stomach tightened. Hill was trying to goad him; he couldn't rise to the bait. Counting to ten in his head even as the images of Nick's subdued face and the angry bruises on his neck whipped past his eyes, Grissom was surprised to hear himself answer evenly. "What do you want me to say? You're going to be held accountable for that, Benjamin."

Hill smirked. Grissom was reminded of a crocodile flashing a similar grin.

"We'll see."

"Are we done here?" Grissom turned his back on Hill and then rolled his eyes in complete disgust. Without another word to the day shift supervisor, he strode away.

"_Don't let that idiot upset you, Grissom._"

Sara's voice piped into his ear, as if she were standing right next to him. He let his lips quirk in a smile. As the sounds of her voice echoed down the station halls, he cocked his head to confirm it was really her, back from the scene.

It was time to have a long overdue talk with Sara Sidle.


	20. Now You Don't

Author's Note: I apologize to everyone! I just flew to the US because I'm starting school soon. Then I was busy settling down properly. I'll be wrapping this up soon. Thanks for all your patience, your support and your reviews! They rock my world!

* * *

Nick snapped off his gloves, frustrated beyond all imagination. He tossed the rubber gloves into the trash and was about to kick the garbage can when he took a deep breath.

_Calm down, big guy. _

Actually, there was really nothing to be calm about. The evidence was a flipping blank. He had gone over the body of the dead woman, along with the pathetically little evidence there was to offer on her corpse. Without viable DNA or identifying features, he couldn't solve the big mystery of who and what she was. He was as good as stuck like a pig, where he was.

He at least could attempt facial reconstruction with what he had. On the other hand, running her through Missing Persons was going to take some time – and he wasn't holding his breath on getting any hits in that database. All others had failed, anyway.

Maybe he could go back to the scene and look for any other clues. It would be better than just sitting here and doing practically nothing. He wasn't paid to twiddle his thumbs when he could be getting valuable information on the case and putting in his two cents' worth. He groaned and reached up to his temples as a migraine began throbbing in his head mercilessly.

A flash of strawberry blond hair caught his attention, and he automatically spun on his heel to follow Catherine as she zipped around a corner of the lab and unloaded a pile of evidence off to Hodges and Wendy. She was just stepping out of DNA and Trace when Nick almost ran her down in his haste, skidding to a stop right in front of her.

"Cath!"

The striking blonde turned to face him with a questioning expression on her face. "Ah, Nicky. Going anywhere with the evidence yet?"

Nick rolled his eyes. "Not even close. I've lost count of the number of brick walls I've hit." He clasped his hands as if in prayer, his eyes pleading. "Do you mind doing me a favor, Cath? It's important," he wheedled when he teased out a resigned look.

Sure enough – as always – Catherine humored him. "Okay, Nicky." She blew out a sigh, tossing her blond bangs around her heart-shaped face. "You're handling the next floater we find." Her eyebrow cocked over one blue eye, daring him to argue.

Nick nodded absently as he took her elbow in his usual gentlemanly manner and steered her over to the computers in one of the offices.

"Missing Persons is running the woman based on the facial reconstruction technique I tried," he rattled off, his mind already on the task ahead. "No identity so far, based on her lack of outstanding features and clothing besides – meaning no places where she was last seen, no neighbors, no accounts or statements or other paperwork we can delve into, no relatives stepping forward to claim her. We've tried broadcasting her face on television, but so far we've gotten more misses than hits."

"If no one has come forward from the broadcasts, Nicky, you can't expect anyone to come forward from Missing Persons," Catherine interjected, her eyes wide.

"No one has come forward _yet_," Nick corrected her. "If there's anything, will you keep me updated then? I have to run on a hunch."

"Take a detective with you," Catherine called out after him as he charged from the room. "It's not safe – you heard what Grissom told us. We're all at risk with this killer on the loose."

Nick briefly paused, turning a hundred and eighty degrees to face her. "Everyone's busy, Cath – Vartann's still holed up at the hospital, O'Riley's helping Sara, Vega's on Warrick's and your case."

"What about Cavaliere?" Catherine pointed out.

Nick seemed to be holding back an urge to roll his eyes. "He's busy watching over Warrick, Sofia, Greg and Vartann. I'll grab an officer, _Mom._"

Now it was Catherine who rolled her eyes. "Nick, whatever it is that happened between you and Cavaliere, it's time to address that. Conflicts run deep, and create scars that won't heal."

Nick locked eyes with her, brown on blue. A torrent of emotions flowed through that link – fear, anger, resentment, confusion, and frustration that boiled over everything. His eyes held an exhaustion that Catherine felt briefly, and she was alarmed at the degree of it in Nick's gaze. He winced as he turned abruptly away from her – the sure sign of a headache or a migraine.

"Maybe when this mess is all over," he bit off, signaling the end of the conversation. "Thanks, Cath. Call me."

Before Catherine could protest further, Nick had turned his back on her and was striding out the door, pulling off his lab coat and digging into his jeans pocket for his car keys.

Outside in the sunshine, he hit the button on his key fob to unlock his Tahoe. He couldn't help but cringe at the knot that was forming in his stomach at how he had dismissed Catherine's concerns. She only meant well, he knew, and he had snapped at her. Now he felt awful.

_She has a point. _

_Shut up. _

After all this was over, he would make it up to her. Then he sighed – obviously he would have to patch things up with Cavaliere again. Though he saw little reason to, and little motivation on his part. _He _hadn't been the one to offend.

Minutes later, he was pulling out of the station's parking lot with Officer Jamison trailing his Tahoe. Neither the CSI nor the cop realized that they were being trailed – by a pair of eyes that watched from inside the station.

* * *

Nick Stokes had finally proven that he was now a liability to be taken care of, a loose thread to be snipped.

According to the conversation he'd had with Catherine Willows – ridiculously simple to eavesdrop and overhear – he was about to 'run on a hunch'. And what hunch was that?

The Devil didn't think that he had overlooked anything when he had killed Yvonne. He had taken her out on a romantic trip – starting from the picnic under the stars next to the car, and then the swim in the lake, and ending in the lake when he had strangled her to death. Pulling her body out of the water and mutilating it had been so darn simple. After he'd killed her and taken care of her corpse properly, he'd cleared up every piece of paper and every crumb, along with all traces of himself ever having been there. At the most, he'd simply thrown the trace evidence into the lake, where it was undoubtedly now of no use to anyone.

Yvonne had been bubbly and excited the entire time, and the Devil didn't think she'd suspected a thing before she'd died. It had been like taking candy from a baby. Thinking back on her, though, he was overwhelmed by a rush of anger and loss.

For all her betrayal, he did miss her. But the slut had to pay for her ways, and paid she had. Her erroneous activities, on the other hand, had caused him to fail thus far.

Well, no more. Never again.

A uniform passed him in the corridor. "Hey," he called, using the Devil's other name, the name he was known by to the rest of the world. "You seen Nick Stokes? He called for backup on a scene, and Detective Cavaliere's available to accompany him – Brass just got Detective Conroy to the hospital, and Vartann's insistent that he'll take care of himself."

"Nick Stokes just left for the scene," the Devil answered calmly. "I'm not sure of the address. Why don't I let him know, and he'll radio Detective Cavaliere for you then?"

The uniform hesitated. He was a young rookie, probably two years out of the academy and uncertain among all the high-ranking officers and CSIs in the LVPD. The Devil had no interest in him whatsoever, and he affected a helpful expression to get the kid moving.

"Yeah…sure! Thanks for your help."

The cop wheeled around and finally left. The Devil paid him no heed. As Benjamin Hill stepped out of the layout room, the Devil met his eye and nodded before taking off.

It was time to have a personal chat with Nick Stokes about the young man's refusal to let sleeping dogs lie – or to let the dead rest in peace.


	21. Itsy Bitsy Spider

Author's Note: I love your reviews, guys. Thanks so much for being so encouraging. As a reward... (:

Happy reading!

P.S. This chapter actually gave me goosebumps. It's a little disturbing writing in the mind of the killer...because it comes all from my own head.

Ew. Not that I actually want to kill anybody. That is just gross - and totally inhumane. But I hope you get what I mean.

* * *

Nick's foot remained pressed firmly on the accelerator throughout the entire ride. Thankfully he had Officer Jamison behind him in an LVPD patrol car, or he would most certainly have been pulled over for reckless driving. Somehow he was being fueled by an overwhelming feeling of urgency that he couldn't suppress or pin down. Borrowing a few pages from Warrick's book, he swerved and swiveled with a finesse that the lean black CSI would have envied.

It was roughly four in the afternoon when he squealed to a halt right in front of the path that led into National Mead. Without even waiting for Officer Jamison, he pushed the door of his Tahoe open and then started into the woods.

"Stokes!" the young cop called.

Nick reluctantly turned and looked across at the kid. Officer Jamison had thick straw-colored hair arranged neatly atop his head, and big baby blues. He had to be in his mid-twenties, with a baby face and youngish features. Nick nearly squinted at the younger man's cheeks – were those honest-to-goodness _freckles? _Where was this guy from, Kansas? Then he laughed to himself. _He _was from the Lone Star State, after all – it wasn't all that farfetched.

"Yeah, Jamison?"

The cop pointed sheepishly to the right. "Isn't the crime scene back that way, CSI Stokes?"

Nick smiled wryly. Yeah, this guy was fresh out of the academy, no doubt, to be using formal titles in the LVPD. "Call me Nick, Jamison. You got a first name I can use?"

"Sure. It's Larry."

Nick refocused on the woods beyond him. "Well, Larry, the path leading into National Mead and towards the lake starts from here, at the parking lot. The crime scene was all the way over at the gazebo, where our Jane Doe was found. We've already searched the parking lot for any traces of a car or transportation where Jane Doe could have taken a cab or something and died here. Right?"

"Uh huh." The young cop looked a little nervous.

"Well, we didn't check the footpaths. What if she went down this way with her killer?"

The younger man shrugged. "Then we check it out."

Nick grinned. For a newbie, the kid was eager. "We check it out."

Without preamble, he picked up his silver field kit case and adjusted the brim of his cap. Nodding once to Larry, he silently urged the cop to follow him before he ducked a tree branch and started walking through the undergrowth, his eyes glued to the ground in front of him and to his left and right for any clue he could find.

"Stok–Nick?" Larry blurted suddenly, and Nick nearly jumped.

Nick almost felt the kid's breath on his neck. "Yeah, Larry?"

"What exactly are we looking for?"

_Okay, Stokes. Stop getting ahead of yourself here. _

"Sorry, Larry. My bad. We're looking for signs of a recent human presence. Check for trampled and trodden leaves and other vegetation, like broken branches and bent stems and stuff. Are you from the country, or are you a city boy?"

"Kansas City. But my grandparents live way out in the boonies, and we always go and visit them there. I like the open spaces and the fresh air." Larry's cheeks flushed, and Nick smirked to himself at his spot-on guess.

"Don't we all. So, I wager you do a little tracking?" he ventured.

"My granddad taught me all he knew."

_Excellent. _

"Good. Then you know what I'm talking about, right?"

"Sure." The kid cocked his head and met Nick's brown eyes curiously. Finally he stated, as if answering a question of his own, "Texas?"

"The very same. Let's get to work, laddie."

Both young men got down to work. It wasn't long before Nick realized he was following a trail of shoeprints across the path – high-heeled shoes, he figured, with sharp stiletto points that had punctured the underlying vegetation, and flat triangular tips that had flattened and smoothed out the grass underfoot. Here were other shoeprints – big, practical boots that were ideal for hiking and trekking. Both prints were side by side. Then they suddenly veered off the path and towards the direction where the gazebo was located.

"Back to the crime scene," Larry commented unnecessarily.

Nick sighed in reply. "I was hoping for something else. We can run the shoe sizes, I guess – it's better than nothing, which is all we have right now."

Snapping the pictures took less than half a minute, after which Nick unloaded the memory card images from the camera and fed them into his phone. He was glad, at least, that his Motorola software was compatible with the memory card software of his camera. Thank goodness for technology. It only took a minute to send the images to Catherine for uploading into the databases. Larry waited patiently as Nick finished the upload – and then his phone shrilled for his attention.

"Hello? Cath?"

"Nicky. We've hit gold."

* * *

Catherine gripped the phone as she tried to hold on to her excitement.

"Really?" Nick burst out. She could tell the news had the same poignant effect on him. "What is it?"

"The broadcasts paid off. A couple, Peter Kopellan and Heidi Black, were making out at National Mead several miles away from the gazebo. They didn't hear or see much, but in between kisses and sweet nothings they remember a man and a woman entering the park. The woman was a blonde about five feet six or seven, and she had a small rectangular-shaped bag with her – probably a purse or bag of sorts. She was wearing high heeled sandals – thanks for the photos, I'll upload them – and her companion was likely six feet two or three, if Mr. Kopellan remembers correctly. I quote Ms. Black: 'He was, like, kind of big? WWE big.' Also, our happy couple recalls that he kept bending his head and face towards the woman, so they couldn't see his features. They do remember that he had hair the color of wet sand, according to Mr. Kopellan."

Nick sounded as if he was trying to squelch his excitement and anticipation. "Are they reliable witnesses, Cath?"

Catherine angled a blue eye towards the couple seated in the lobby of the station, assessing the witnesses once more in her head and with her good judgment. Finally she gave Nick her assent. "Ms. Black seems a little flighty, but I'd vouch for Mr. Kopellan. He works under a headhunter and according to his boss, he has a good eye for people."

She could tell that Nick was grinning. "I could kiss you, Catherine. Help me check out those shoe prints and the shoe types, would you?"

"Wait! Nick!" Catherine hung onto the phone until she knew she had snagged his attention yet again. "Detective Cavaliere's free. He's waiting for you to radio him on your location. Are you with Officer Jamison yet?"

Nick's gusty sigh was like the sound of dead leaves blown by the wind. After a long while, he finally admitted, his voice a trifle strained, "I'll radio him."

"Good boy. I'll see you soon, Nicky."

* * *

Nick pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at Larry as he hung up the call from Catherine. He supposed that she _was _right – inter-departmental peace was a must, especially when detectives and CSIs had to work together. Hopefully Cavaliere had mellowed over the week since the last case where they'd worked together.

He looked back over the shoeprints again. Another set of the bootprints led back to the parking lot, as if the man – their killer, if the witnesses were to be believed – had gone back to the car for some supplies. Or perhaps, Nick thought darkly, he'd returned to the car for his knife and the wire to kill his female companion. He and Larry combed the entire gazebo to find out if there were any other shoeprints leading anywhere else.

"Nick?" Larry's voice rang out hollowly.

"Hmmm?"

"There's a set of high heel prints and boot prints leading towards the lake. Do you want me to follow it?"

Nick's expert eye spotted something that he hadn't expected. The hairs stood at attention on his neck and arms, and he held onto that thought for dear life before turning his gaze over to the young cop and nodding. "Sure, Larry, if that's okay. Thanks. I'm going to follow up over on these high heel prints here. Meet you back at the gazebo?"

Larry was already bounding off. Smiling slightly once more at the kid's vibrance, Nick was about to follow up on his lead when Catherine's admonishing statement floated across his mind like a bad memory. He let out his breath in a loud raspberry.

_Last thing I want to do is to have a moral debate over the phone. _

Reluctantly Nick dialed Cavaliere's cell and waited, his heartbeat matching the steady _ring, ring, ring _of the cell phone. It took only a few seconds before Cavaliere's gruff voice answered.

"Cavaliere."

"Hey, Cavaliere, it's Nick Stokes." Nick didn't give the man a chance to butt in. "I heard that you're free to come watch my back for this case? I'm at National Mead with Officer Larry Jamison, at the gazebo crime scene. We're scouting out the lake and the surrounding area on a lead."

"Sure thing, Stokes," the detective replied. His tone was baldly controlled, almost tentative, as if he was treading on unsteady ground.

Nick felt the coiling tension rising in him like a tidal wave. Before his traitorous mouth could obey the stern commands from his brain to _stop and think, _the words popped right out. "Just straighten me out on something, Cavaliere. Are you going to watch my back or burn it?"

The dead silence over the phone as both police detective and CSI tried to reconcile those words with their feelings, was utterly deafening. Nick mentally slapped himself for pushing with his Texan bluntness. What was the point of bringing those feelings out in the open? Now the issue was there to deal with, whether they liked it or not. When was he going to learn to let sleeping dogs lie?

"Listen, Nick," the detective finally spoke up in a voice that sounded nearly as weary as Nick himself felt. "I know that we haven't exactly been on great terms since that case…"

_Try the term, 'at each other's throats'. That would probably be an apt description. _

"…but I've thought about that day when we closed the case. I guess…you were right. I was being an ass, and there wasn't really a need for me to get nasty."

"_You owe me an apology," Cavaliere gritted, as both men stood in the hallway outside the interrogation room. _

_Nick faced him and kept his eyes on him for a few minutes before flicking them away. "I'm sorry…that you feel that way, Detective." _

Nick pinched the bridge of his nose again. The migraine in his temples let up for a moment. Cavaliere was a proud man, and Nick knew that the apology had to have galled the detective a great deal. Most men probably wouldn't even stoop to attempting at amends.

Cavaliere fell silent, likely waiting for a reaction from Nick. Nick was aware that the man was cringing, probably expecting Nick to cut him off at the knees. The Texan wasn't that cruel.

"Well, maybe not a complete ass," he allowed.

When the detective next spoke, he sounded as if he were smiling. "I'll see you at the scene, Nick. Don't get into any trouble."

Nick didn't even realize he had been holding his breath until he noticed that his chest was protesting for air. As he clicked off the call, he felt as if part of the weight on his shoulders had just dissipated. That, however, was immediately replaced by the thought of following his hunch before it grew too dark to see things in the proper perspective.

The oily feeling of uneasiness that suddenly settled over him prompted him to quicken his footsteps as he followed the shoeprints of the woman long dead into the woods.

What wouldn't he give for a real break just about now.

* * *

The Devil stood over the body, his knife still dripping rubies.

That had been _so _easy. The kid of a cop hadn't even known that he'd been there. All he had to do was remain still and quiet as a mouse, grab onto a handful of blond hair and jerk back the boy's head before he'd slit the kid's throat like he was butchering a hog. Nick Stokes had been on the phone, and being the considerate man he was, the Devil hadn't wanted to interrupt the conversation. After he dispatched the child cop, he would have plenty of time to go after the CSI.

Now he turned the knife over, admiring the way the dark red blood slithered over the gleaming steel of the knife, and the way the light glinted off the shining blade.

He loved the way blood flowed and moved. He loved the valuable little fact that blood was what made up life – that the precious biological elixir flowed through the veins and arteries of human beings, providing the oxygen and food and water and other elements required by the body to function. Once that elixir was gone, however, the human body was a deadened cocoon, lifeless and still. All it required was the steady draining of blood from capillaries and other vessels.

That reminded him of the way some spiders killed their victims – they bit the hapless fly or bug and sucked out the life-preserving blood and body fluids like a teenager draining a bottle of Snapple.

What a thought. What irony.

It was the same death that he had had in mind for Nicholas Parker Stokes.


	22. The Devil May Care

Author's Note: Everything's revealed! Will Nick be able to escape after learning the truth - or will the Devil be determined to make that die with him?

* * *

Nick frowned as he picked up the pace. So far the footprints weren't helping – he'd followed them for a minute, and every few steps they weaved and bobbed between trees, below overhanging branches, and over patterns of dead leaves and twigs and grass. It was as if the woman was being deliberately elusive, leading her companion on a wild goose chase.

He suddenly came to a stop beside a clump of leaves and a pile of discarded rock and branches. The footprints had ended here before turning back around and returning the way they had come.

Whatever it was, Nick realized, this was his only clue. He may as well go through with it till the end, no matter how redundant or longwinded it was.

Dropping to one knee, Nick began digging under the loose stones and leaves and branches, not caring about the soft dirt flakes that smudged on his large hands and long fingers and gathered beneath his nails. The ground here had been disturbed, and it was such an obvious hiding place that anyone else might have disregarded it.

But not Nick.

Frantically he kept digging, suspecting that what he was looking for was right at this spot. Perspiration dripped down his forehead and temples; the humidity out here was a killer. His T-shirt beneath his CSI vest glued to his muscles, and he was tempted to let up and wipe himself off. He kept on forking over the soil.

Finally he hit pay dirt – literally.

As he swept the flakes of dirt away, Nick spotted the dull gleam of brown leather. Reaching downwards with both hands, he unearthed the rectangular leather-bound book, shaking the dirt from its pages and lifting it towards him.

Who but this woman had to have buried the book – journal, diary, album? Why would she have buried it unless she was aware that her companion was going to kill her?

Nick was glad for his rubber gloves. Now he seized the book, opening the front cover to the first page.

"_This is my sixty-ninth testament, the testament of Yvonne Taylor Fellows, written in my own hand. I am the wife of Darren Fellows and mother of my only daughter and treasure, Tiffany Fellows. _

"_May God forgive my soul for what I have done." _

Nick rocketed back on his knees at the words. His sharp mind scrambled furiously as he tried to reconcile the names with the bodies he'd seen.

Wasn't Darren Fellows the name of Sara's suicidal vic? Wasn't _Tiffany _the first name of the young girl who had been killed in the toy store attack, Owen Withers' supposed niece? Who was lying here?

"_I have committed the atrocity that a married individual should not – the same atrocity that so many wives and husbands have committed in the long ranges of their matrimonies, be they happy or miserable ones. I am involved in an affair with one of the most wonderful men ever to walk this earth. He does what my husband would not – he listens to my advice, my judgment, my feelings and my thoughts. He gives me control over so many things. He confides in me. He protects me. He spends time with my child._

"_His name is Owen Withers." _

Nick nearly dropped the book. He tried to grip it more firmly, but it didn't take a genius to realize that his fingers were trembling from the ugly revelations that had sprung up from the journal – and the hideous conclusions he was deducing from his own mind. He flipped through the pages at random, unearthing more truths that stabbed at his head and heart like ice picks.

"_One of Owen's troubles is that he is not valued enough at his occupation. His supervisors are relentless in their attacks on him. His colleagues are difficult to bear. Furthermore, he has spoken of a group of individuals at his workplace – the graveyard shift – that would willingly stomp him into the dirt if they had the chance. The women do not respect him, he has complained, and the men simply look down on him. They feel that they are better than him in every way – as if _anyone _could be superior to my Owen."_

"_The contentions at work grow worse. Several times, Owen has wished aloud that he could pay these graveyard shift individuals back for what they have done; that he could teach them a lesson they would not forget. He has mentioned several in particular: a Gilbert Grissom, whose prying pretentiousness had cost Owen his promotion; a Warrick Brown, who was favored by his boss into staying even though his gambling problems would long have had him fired; a Greg Sanders, who similarly is shielded and favored too much by his supervisor."_

"_Owen has taken a deep interest in my chemistry and my mechanical hobby. I wired a doll for Tiffany to play with last Sunday, and his attention was caught from then onwards. I have taught him everything I know – it uplifts me to see him so happy or so interested, distracted from his obsessive thoughts of anger and payback. I am sure he does not mean those thoughts – we all go through those rough patches of disliking our supervisors and our competitors and our colleagues. Owen's problem is that he takes things too seriously and intensely." _

"_I have spoken to Darren when he hit Tiffany and I one too many times. I demanded a divorce, just as Owen and I desire, and he countered that he wanted marriage counseling. For Tiffany's sake, I am considering it. She still loves her daddy, after all, and I want only what is best for her, before my own interests in my sake." _

"_When I was in Owen's garage, looking for Tiffany's Mermaid Barbie, I found a cardboard box labeled _CSI: Graveyard Shift _this morning. Imagine my horror when I opened it and found different bags labeled with each name of the CSIs from the graveyard shift. Greg Sanders: hydrofluoric acid and a Teflon spray. Warrick Brown: a complete wired male doll in blue overalls, red shirt and shoes – familiar-looking, perhaps from a film or television show? – and several twelve-inch steak knives. I cannot remember the rest except one unlabeled bag containing a bottle of heparin and another chef's knife. All these chemicals – all from my stores, all traceable back to me. _

"_Is my Owen, the gentle, loving man I know, actually planning to commit premeditated murder of these unknowing individuals?" _

"_I confronted Owen this morning. I told him what I'd found, what I'd concluded he was doing. I told him what Darren told me, that even though I was unfaithful, he still wants to mend our relationship and stay together with me, for Tiffany's sake. I told him I had to leave him, for what he was about to do, for what he had become, and for my own sake as well as Tiffany's. My lover has become a monster." _

"_I love him so much it hurts. I cherish all our times together so much that I can never forget them. When I shut my eyes at night, I remember them all – they play across my mind's eye in dreams. Tiffany likes him as well. But Darren is still her father – she still has that bond with him. This time, I know Darren is sincere – I can feel it. He is still my husband, and it was I that erred in the first place. The best thing I can do is try and persuade Owen to do what is best for everyone. I cannot believe, however, that he is a murderer. He has more good in him than that." _

"_Owen, surprisingly, accepted the news well. He told me that he wanted one more night with me, out at National Mead Park where we first dated and met. He hired a babysitter for Tiffany and we headed to the park. Initially I was concerned that Darren would come and find me, but Owen told me not to worry – that this night was just for us both, alone. I will be happy as I can be tonight for him – because the next day, I will be leaving him. He knows it, and I love how he is able to put a determined face on this." _

Nick felt a shudder going through him. He could actually sense the blood draining out of his face. This wasn't even ghastly – it was much worse than that. It was monstrous.

He flipped to the last entry in the book. Unlike the neat curlicues in the rest of the journal, this one was slightly messier, more hurried.

"_Even now, I cannot believe that this is the end. _

"_He is lying. I can feel it. At the start of the outing, he picked me up in his Buick. I asked him about Tiffany – he would have gotten home in time to see her before fetching me from the research lab where I work. He merely shrugged off my concerns for my daughter, and that when we got home later, we could take care of the arrangements for her. I mentioned that Darren hadn't telephoned me tonight, but Owen reassured me that he was likely drunk and passed out at home and that he could be dealt with later. _

"_I didn't even suspect a thing. As Darren was unloading the picnic basket from the trunk of the car, my suspicions only started peaking when I saw the bulges in his jacket. I brought my journal in my purse, for once, instead of leaving it at home as I ordinarily do – I wanted to record this night as it was forever. _

"_We walked to the gazebo and started laying out the food from the basket when Darren realized that he'd left the plastic cups, cutlery and plates in the car. He stripped off his jacket and left it at the gazebo with me. It was a good few minutes' walk from the gazebo to the parking lot, and I immediately opened his jacket pockets. _

"_Inside were a pair of canvas gloves and two pairs of rubber gloves – the kind he uses at his forensics job – and a black ski mask, along with a barbed wire that was coiled, as if ready for some use that I knew not, but I suspected. _

"_It is safe to say that I knew right from that very moment that he was going to kill me. He was going to kill Tiffany, if she wasn't already dead, Darren too. Being a forensics investigator, he would be able to cover up our murders. I knew right then that I had to hide this journal or risk letting a murderer, my Owen, on the loose. He would go after the graveyard shift CSIs – after he killed me and my whole family. And there is no way I can stop him – except to hide this, and pray that justice would find him. _

"_There is a spot where I know I can hide my journal. I am running there now. By providence, Owen will not know where I have gone until I am back, and he will not know that I have recorded all this down for the right person to see. _

"_This is my last testament. I regret having aided, and loved, a murderer. If you would have known him during our wonderful time together, you would have known how much I wish to be wrong about Owen Withers. But there is no way that I am incorrect in this. I learned firsthand that I was wrong about him, all along – and that innocent men and women will pay in blood because of my mistakes. _

"_I truly am sorry. I am so sorry for all the distress I have caused. He is a good man, I know it – but overpowering that good man is a beast." _

Nick didn't know what instinct it was that made him leap up after reading that last entry. As if driven by some primal urge, he stuffed the journal into his jacket and began running in a mad dash back to the parking lot where his car was.

The knife that whizzed by his head and embedded into the trunk of the tree just beside him told him what he needed to know.

_Owen Withers was here – and he was going to kill him. _


	23. The Devil Take You

Author's Note: To all those great ppl out there who have reviewed my story, you guys are the best! (Don't worry, this isn't the end. Yet.) I'm sorry I had to kill off that cop, but it was all in the grand scheme of things. I mean, you know, O.W. isn't exactly a teddy bear. More of a bear with a knife. But anyways...for all those who have no idea what heparin is, I'll be revealing it in the next few chapters. You'll know more then.

P.S. I didn't come up with it, it's an actual substance. If you want, you can Google it - not recommended, because it'll spoil the story for you!

Happy reading.

* * *

The blind fear the gripped Nick like a dead vice was paralyzing and absolutely terrifying. As he ran on madly through the gaps between trees and jumped over fallen logs and branches, he was well aware that a single misstep would cost him his life: a twisted ankle, a sprained heel, a moment's disorientation from slamming into a tree trunk – any of these would result in an untimely end at Owen Withers' knife hand.

The sole damning piece of evidence, Yvonne Taylor's journal, lay nestled inside his jacket. It seemed to burn through his shirt like a hot coal he couldn't ignore. The hideous truths that he'd read were seared into Nick's mind, and he couldn't shake the words even as he ran for his life.

He'd spent enough time on the ranch at home to have an innate, uncanny sense of knowing how to track and travel in the woods. His father had always sworn by his instinctive sense of direction. Now, as Nick veered back towards the parking lot where he had come, he knew he couldn't afford to lead Owen Withers around on a wild goose chase. The odds were, bad as they appeared, he would tire out before the killer and become easy pickings as a result. Furthermore, he didn't know for sure if Withers was adept at that sort of thing, too. As far as his luck went, Withers just might be a master woodsman and hunter.

A sense of doom grew cold inside his chest. Nick wasn't naïve enough to believe that Officer Jamison was still alive. Like all predators, Owen Withers would have eliminated the unsuspecting cop before going after the harder prey. Nick held no notions that he would last as long as Larry Jamison had – what differentiated him from the cop was that he was one of the targets of the killer's wrath.

The adrenaline rushing through Nick was the only thing that kept him from collapsing with exhaustion or freezing in terror. Unlike Greg, Warrick, Sofia, Vartann, and the rest, he knew the truth about Owen Withers. He alone was aware of what the man was capable of. Besides cold-blooded murder, Owen Withers had the sociopathic ability to act, lie to and manipulate those around him without regret. Once Nick was six feet under, he would go after Grissom, Catherine, Sara and finish off the others easily. The graveyard shift team was sharp-witted and intelligent, but no one would see this coming. Nick had thought he had known Owen Withers, and looks weren't just deceiving now – they were utterly deadly.

The knife seemed to flick out of nowhere, the blade kissing his right arm before it spun away to his left as he ducked, a little too late, and veered away. Gritting his teeth against the cry of pain, Nick didn't even have time to check his wound. The parking lot was coming up fast in his vision, and he fumbled with the gun at his hip with his left hand, his right arm hanging limply at his side. Risking a look behind, Nick didn't see Owen Withers nearby, but he knew he had seconds left to keep Withers from finding the journal and destroying the only lead on the case.

If he hid the journal, Owen Withers could kill him – but the others would still be able to solve the case and bring justice right down on the head of the sociopath, once and for all.

* * *

Owen Withers cursed as he sprinted after the young CSI.

Who would have known that those Texan genes were so great out here in the woods? Nick Stokes was in his element, and the Devil had completely forgotten that. The guy was as fast as a young deer, and he hadn't even been unaware like the others. When he'd approached the CSI, the same knife that had killed the cop still bleeding onto the leaves underfoot, Nick Stokes had jumped up without warning and begun a mad dash away. By the time the Devil had flung the knife, Stokes was already two trees past.

He'd underestimated Nick Stokes too much. If the CSI managed to get away, the Devil would be exposed – and that disturbed his short-term plans too much.

Well, Nick Stokes wouldn't be able to use his car to get away, that was for damn sure. The Devil smirked to himself and crept forward. Yet something was disturbing his mind.

How had Nick Stokes known the Devil was behind him? He'd gotten a good look at the younger man as Stokes had torn past him, and he remembered with an aggravated grimace that the CSI had been holding something in his jacket. Was that some piece of evidence that the Devil had forgotten the last time he'd been here – when he'd killed Yvonne?

His brain flashed back to that fateful evening, an image registering in his mind's eye: Yvonne in her blue sundress and brown sandals, long silky blond hair floating in the wind, a serious yet fun-loving gleam in her eye. Always at her side was her brown shoulder bag – he'd taken that, along with her articles of clothing and anything that would have identified her. The bag had contained nothing but her keys, her wallet with cash and credit cards, her cosmetic bag, a water bottle, and a pen.

It had meant nothing at the time. Now, another image bloomed in his head: Yvonne, seated at the dining table in his home, writing furiously but neatly in a book. He remembered teasing her about them, asking her what they were, and she'd told him they were her journals. She had about sixty-plus of those brown leather books in her possession. Naturally, he'd hidden them after he'd gotten home, just in case people were snooping around.

Had she been writing during her last hours on earth? If so, where had the book gone? Why would she have brought the pen unless she had had the journal to go with it? He hadn't browsed through her journals; merely assumed that he'd confiscated all of her records for his eyes only.

Had Nick Stokes found her journal? The doubts that slammed into his mind were erased by the certainty and confirmation of the truth. Rage and fear swelled in him.

For that to happen, it would mean that Yvonne had been the one to hide the journal. That, in turn, would mean that she had been aware he was going to kill her.

_No! She wasn't that smart! No one's as smart as I am! _

Curling his fists around the knife, the Devil screamed aloud in rage, voicing his fury to the heavens. Birds took off from their nests and perches, and the chattering of other animals died away.

Suddenly, shots were fired from the direction of the parking lot towards the spot where the Devil stood. As he dove for cover behind a tree, he realized that the bullets were only coming from one gun. That meant that Detective Cavaliere couldn't have been here yet – and that young Nick Stokes was cut off from the world.

He would retrieve the journal and kill Nick Stokes for having given him so much trouble. The Devil hardened his resolve. Instead of granting the CSI a quick death, he would drag it out.

The heparin he'd reserved for Gil Grissom? Nick Stokes suddenly seemed more deserving of that honor. After all, the Devil couldn't remember the last time when he was so out of his mind with anger. It was hot and black and burned in him like acid through every vein and cell of his being.

Maybe after the hours that Nick Stokes would take to die, the Devil would send his head back in a pretty display case for Grissom. To allow the graveyard shift to recognize him, he would leave Stokes' head unmarked and untouched – not defame or mutilate it like he would the body.

_Yes, sirree. The game is afoot. _


	24. Now and Forever

Author's Note: Sorry this took so long. I was really working on this one 'cause I'm not very good at romance, and because I wanted to do GSR proud. Let me know what you think! P.S. I took some of the info on the insect off Wiki and paraphrased it a little; I'm no Grissom or other entomology expert so that was something I had to do. Thanks and enjoy!

* * *

Sara rubbed her eyes as she plodded wearily out of the layout room where she'd been consolidating her evidence. Her eye sockets felt as if there were sand in them, and she wanted to lie down and sleep for a week. But that wouldn't do – and besides, the entire team was just as worn out as she was, if not more. Her granola bar, in the paper bag next to the fridge, was starting to look more and more like gourmet food by the second to her growling stomach.

The break room wasn't empty, and Sara was surprised by the sounds of voices until she entered the room and found Greg and Warrick seated at the table chatting. Greg's forearm was still heavily bandaged, and so was Warrick's leg. The latter glanced up at her with tired green eyes; Greg seemed drained despite his usual beaming grin.

"Hey, Sara," they chorused as one, before Warrick shot the other young man a mockingly dirty look. Greg returned the favor by throwing Sara an upraised eyebrow and a wink, as if they were in on some joke that Warrick wasn't. Despite her exhaustion, Sara felt the corners of her mouth turning upward in a smile.

"What are you guys doing here?" she wondered aloud, moving over to the counter and retrieving her paper bag. Her granola bar was inside the bag, and as she fished it out she felt a piece of scrap paper there, about the size and length of her finger.

"Cavaliere and Vega dropped us off here because we refused to go home," Greg rattled off. "Cavaliere headed off to follow Nick; Vega's around here somewhere."

"Oh, I remember," Sara interrupted, as Warrick's mouth formed the question: _Where's Nick? _"He was following his gut on this one. Don't start on me, he didn't tell me anything. All he did was just wave goodbye and leave. How long have you guys been here?" she asked absently, maneuvering the granola bar wrapper with one hand and tearing the top open.

"'Bout twenty minutes," Warrick added.

"Um," Sara mumbled. She bit down on one corner of the granola bar as she reached back into the bag for the paper scrap. Pulling it out of her bag, she unrolled it and spread it out between two fingers to read the neatly penned line there.

_My office? Grissom. _

She didn't need to see the name to recognize whose rounded, deliberate handwriting it was.

_What's with all the subterfuge around here? If he wants to yell at me…_

Sara opened her mouth to ask Warrick and Greg about Grissom's whereabouts, but the words evaded her as she thought of something. Grissom had gone to all the trouble to hide that message in her lunch bag – obviously, the discussion they were about to have was something for her ears only. That meant that she had to keep this to herself. Well, at least he had the courtesy not to disgrace or humiliate her in public.

Intrigued and curious despite everything happening around her, Sara bade Greg and Warrick a hasty goodbye. Curiosity eating a hole in her, she headed for Grissom's office, finishing her granola bar as she went. The sweet combination of oats, honey and dried fruit sated her taste buds and her stomach as she stepped into his office, admiring his collections of insects, embalmed critters – including Grissom's beloved fetal pig – and other creepy-crawlies. In all honesty, some of the eclectic collection didn't disturb Sara – she liked beetles, and had mentioned such to Grissom. They _were _kind of cute, what with their little jointed legs and tiny hard shells and minute antennae. So long as they didn't crawl in dirt or human and animal matter or cause disease, Sara knew she didn't have a single problem with them.

Grissom wasn't in his office just yet. As Sara moved further into the room, noting the little library corner among the tall narrow shelves where he had all of his huge encyclopedias, forensics and entomology textbooks, etcetera, she realized that his desk was a lot neater than it usually was. Atop the desk, placed directly behind Grissom's name plaque, was a nicely wrapped gift box bearing her name in bold block letters written in black marker. Sara recognized Grissom's handwriting once more, and the thought washed over her like a warm tide.

Her attention now fully piqued, Sara strode forward and picked up the box. An arrow in black marker was slashed on one side of the box, along with the words THIS SIDE UP; holes were poked in the sides of the box – _air holes_, she finally realized.

Well, this was interesting.

Giving in to temptation – hey, the box was addressed to her _directly _– Sara threw all caution to the wind and began ripping off the simple brown paper, careful not to tip or jolt the box inside too much. She soon saw why – the walls of the box were hard glass, the kind used for aquariums for bugs or fish, and in the cover were several air holes. More importantly, the aquarium held several rocks, more plants and a heat lamp. The entire ensemble reminded her of a rainforest, though Sara couldn't think of any particular one. When she looked harder, Sara could just glimpse a large, brightly colored beetle slowly sashaying beneath the canopy of a large green leaf.

The beetle was extraordinarily pretty, for a bug. Sara couldn't associate this one with wiggling larvae or flies, the other insects she usually came into contact with in the field. Her eyes roved over the shovel-shaped tusk of the beetle, admiring the metallic green color of the beetle's shell. When the bug moved, the light reflected off its shell to produce rainbow hues that were as vibrant as tropical flowers.

Sara was enchanted. She'd never seen an insect this striking apart from butterflies. Bending down from the waist, she leaned forward to further examine the beetle. It complacently sauntered from under the leaf, ignoring her completely.

"Sara," a warm voice floated from the door.

Sara leapt about a foot in the air. When she finally made it down to earth, she whipped around to find Grissom framed in the doorway. With his large hands covering the box he held, she didn't have much time or opportunity to see what was cupped between his palms and fingers.

"Grissom," she acknowledged after she was sure her hammering heart had died down a little, ignoring at the same time the sudden jump of her pulse and the thrill that coursed through her whenever she saw him. "You…wanted to see me?"

The tiny smile that made its way onto Grissom's lips came as a mild surprise. Sara hardly saw him smile on the job, when they were actually tackling cases and handling the forensics of homicides and other crimes. That small grin was out of place, but she didn't mind it. She didn't mind it at all. Her heart skipped a beat at his calm, somehow resolute expression – he seemed to be harboring something that he wanted to tell her.

"I did, actually," he revealed, his tone sounding as if it were Christmas morning and he had a particularly big surprise for her. Striding into the office, he shut the door and faced her.

Sara loved how he walked – it was a deliberate, confident tread, belonging to a man with intelligence and self-control. She liked how his smile always seemed to hold a particular secret for her, and sometimes was directed at her alone. She enjoyed his little quirks and his personality and the times they were together. Perhaps it was obsession or feeling, but she could account back every moment they'd spent with each other and the emotions it'd invoked in her.

Okay, who was she kidding? She loved every part of him, period. No matter how much he would want that fact – that _truth _– in the dark, or how many women he would be with, every fiber of her being seemed to be attuned to him. When he was in a room, all her cells were alive with attention and interest, straining to enjoy every minute with him until he left and the next time he returned. Of all the people in her life, Sara knew she would do anything for Gil Grissom.

Sara was surprised that he seemed so cheerful and lighthearted after their conversation. She had been tense coming into the station, fearful of seeing Grissom and remembering what exactly she'd said to him, truth though her words had been. She'd been tremulous at noting his reaction – would he turn away from her in anger, his brow furrowed and the scowl on his lips, or would he avoid her eye and keep away from her like the plague? Would he ignore their conversation and dismiss her feelings; would he be indifferent to what she had to offer him, little as it was? Sara wasn't quite sure which prospect was worse.

"Um," she fumbled, suddenly feeling extraordinarily self-conscious. She realized what sort of image she had to be presenting – bent over, her butt facing the doorway, gaping into a glass aquarium that she'd just ripped the paper off. The mess of brown shreds lay on his neat desktop, and she hastily moved to gather them up. "I thought that was for me, so I opened it."

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Obviously it had to be some extraordinary bug specimen that Grissom had sent away for from some exotic location – maybe Nigeria or Mongolia or Singapore, probably. By sheer dumb luck or maybe chance it was addressed to her, and she'd just invaded Grissom's private space and vandalized his property.

Why did she always have to look like a fool in front of him and all those other women in his life have model looks and high ranks and large purses in comparison?

Then Sara steeled her jaw. Teri Miller and Lady Heather and Sofia Curtis were no better than she was. She might not have their blond good looks – or perfectly lovely, painted faces – et al, but she had her own attractiveness. If Grissom didn't see that…

Grissom's answer took her aback.

"It is for you," he stated simply, that quiet smile still playing around his lips.

"I mean, I know that was being presumptuous, but – excuse me?"

"_Eudicella gralli_," he announced with a flourish. "Brightly colored member of the scarab beetle family and found in the subfamily known as the flower beetles. Their shells have a pristine quality, refracting the ambient light to give the shiny metallic green of their carapaces an iridescent rainbow tint. This species lives in the African rainforests and feeds on the nectar and pollen of flowers; their larvae live in decaying wood and feed on dead wood and leaf litter. Popular in the exotic pet trade. The female has a shovel-like tusk that she uses to burrow in wood."

Sara turned back to the pretty beetle. The bubble of appreciation in her chest buoyed her up, and she had to force herself to curb her enthusiasm as was appropriate.

"She's beautiful," she commented with approval, unable to hide the smile in her voice.

Grissom's tone was just as pleased as hers. "Also known as the flamboyant flower beetle," he boasted. In a softer tone, full of meaning and warmth, he added after a second, "Another name for them is the striped love beetle."

Sara felt the blood rushing to her ears and face. Cool shock enveloped her, mingling with the blushing heat of pumping excitement and adrenaline at those words. Her step quickened as she whirled back just as hurriedly to Grissom.

The tiny grin on his face had something in the expression – something tender and gentle. Sara couldn't decipher it until she laid eyes on his deep brown orbs. They were warm – very warm. Then it struck her so abruptly that it was like a slap. The look on Grissom's face was the same look that…that…

_That a man gives a woman. That _look.

The look when two people are in love.

Sara shook her head several times to clear it. When she dared to glance at Grissom again, he was placing the box in his hands on a blank surface, his eyes never leaving her. The smile seemed to have grown bigger somewhat. Was she imagining things?

"That's nice," she managed through the boulder in her throat.

Grissom laid a palm flat on the box he had been holding. For the life of her, Sara couldn't tear her eyes from his intimate yet intense gaze, so he picked the box back up again and held it out in front of him to chest level, so that she could at least glimpse what was inside.

It was an insect habitat replicating hers. As if attracted by a magnetic charge, Sara felt her attention drawn to the bug resting on the leaf litter and heated dirt at the bottom of the aquarium. The tiny creature was watching her indulgently, the light reflecting off its gleaming polished shell, little colored spots thrown off against the glass like the facets of a disco ball. It resembled her own bug, except that it had –

"Males have a Y-shaped horn that they use to fight over females," Grissom finished.

Sara struggled to compose herself, to hide the emotion raging in her. She hated to fight the hope and the excitement rising in her and choking her throat. Moreover, she did not want Grissom to see her making more out of this than he likely wanted.

"Wait, Sara," Grissom began. The calm look in his eyes was starting to dissolve as he read her expression, and trepidation was beginning to set in. "Let me explain. Don't say anything, don't start. Just let me finish and you can say it.

"I've been thinking about what you said. You're right that I've been too afraid and too complacent to look at you, not just as one of my CSIs, but also as a woman. As Sara Sidle. All those women in my past have been great, but nothing special, Sara. At least, not the special that I had been looking for, but what I _thought _I wanted.

"You've been unique since the first day I met you – no other woman has ever been quite like you. No other woman has that strength of character, that outer and inner beauty, that, that _intelligence _and that _spirit _which you possess.

"I've been fooling around all my life – I've let my work consume my life to the point that I've only spent time with the women who don't matter so much in my existence and ignored the one woman that _is _my existence. I thought I cared about that woman, but I didn't. Now I do. I've put this off for far too long. I want a new life, Sara – a life where I could laugh and smile and love with one who would do the same with me. I'm 50 years old, Sara, and I think you're right. You're not going to wait forever, and I'm not going to screw up the chance of my lifetime, the one prize that fate has granted me. I'm willing to take that chance with you, if you will have me."

Sara could only stare at him. She had the heady feeling that she was rising from the floor toward the ceiling, as if a hot-air balloon were being inflated within her with every word that came out of Grissom's mouth in its sudden rush of honesty and emotion.

"I see you as this perfect little beetle, Sara. When you compare this beetle with other more flamboyant insects, like the butterfly or the bee, some may find her plain. I find her absolutely beautiful. She may look dull when darkness falls, but it is at the right moments, when the light hits her shell, she is more striking, more outstanding, than the butterfly or the bee. And what is best is that she is completely suitable for the male beetle – the foolish male beetle who had been looking for a butterfly or a bee, but has realized that this female beetle is the one and only for him."

Grissom had been approaching her, one step at a time. At first he stood directly in front of her, so close their noses almost touched. He sidestepped and placed the aquarium with the male beetle on the desk beside the female beetle's aquarium, then took another step back in front of her smoothly. Now he was back to standing in her private space, being in such close proximity every fiber of her being quivered at the possibility of contact.

Her senses were alive this close to him. Sara felt her nostrils twitch at the scent of his cologne and his clothing and skin. His curly salt-and-pepper hair was so wild that her fingers almost stretched up to run through that mop. His lips were parted in that gentle, calm smile she loved; his eyes were honest and sparkled with a tenderness she couldn't begin to describe. There was no lie in them, no deception or deceit or malicious intent. Grissom wouldn't do that to her, Sara knew. His entire face looked more radiant than she'd ever seen it – as if there was some form of happiness that was so intangible it couldn't be taken away at this particular moment – if at all.

"What are you saying, Grissom?" she breathed, feeling like she was going to pass out from the tightness in her chest.

Grissom reached down and took her hands in his. Sara was giddy from the touch of his warm callused fingers caressing her soft, colder ones. Her head was spinning, yet her heart was flooding with a joy that burned brightly, along with an overwhelming relief she couldn't explain.

"You know exactly what I'm saying, Sara," he answered. "I love you, and I'm willing to try if you are. I'm not going to waste another moment on what we could have, if I can help it. Not anymore – not ever."

A hundred things to say sprang to mind for her. Some of them, she knew, would ruin the mood; others were simply more gooey, more romantic, than Grissom would think she was ever capable of. There wasn't much Sara could say to that – Grissom's honesty and the depth of his feelings astounded her, and touched her as much as they thrilled her.

With that, Sara couldn't stop the broad smile that broke out over her countenance like the sun coming out from behind a dark cloud.

"Sara?" Grissom prompted, a tad nervously. She could hear the tremulous note in his voice, and she almost laughed aloud. Finally, her voice returned to her.

"Yes," she whispered.

Her consent seemed to banish all the uncertainty in an instant. Both of them moved forward as one, unconsciously but unhesitatingly, their lips meeting and brushing briefly. Both of them so unfamiliar with the simple joys of the fledgling relationship; yet both were willing to try. The spark of electricity that jumped from her lips to Grissom's and back again was a welcoming surprise to her. When they broke apart with a laugh, their arms somehow entwined around each other, their gazes immediately went to the beetles on the desk. The colorful little bugs weren't paying the humans any attention – rather, they were each flitting against the glass of their respective aquariums. The female bug was buzzing against the right glass wall; the male was bumping against the left.

"The bugs want to be together," Sara heard herself remark, slightly breathless.

Grissom laughed, and the sound made her grin. "Well, they _do _represent you and me."

Sara let her eyes trail up and down his face, and then she looked at him coyly from under her lashes. Without further ado, she let her lips kiss the side of his cheek, something she'd been waiting to do since she'd decided her own feelings for him. That brought back the reminder of her fingers gently brushing chalk from his face and the touch of her skin against his that dark night.

"I think the bugs can wait," she murmured, her breath whispering across his skin.

Grissom's breathing had turned into short, clipped sounds.

"We've got the case," he reminded, albeit his evident reluctance.

Sara sucked in a breath as he suddenly started to run his fingers through her brown hair. The touch of his fingertips was magical, and the sensation was one that she had thought she would never experience.

Forget Hank. Forget every other guy that she had ever been with and who had ever let her down or cheated on her or fallen short of her expectations. Grissom was _the one_, and it had been worth waiting all this time to finally know that he was right here, that her place was right here, where she belonged, and that no one was going to rob her of this.

"Grissom…"

He had buried his face in her hair. Sara was hoping that this moment would never end. With the world out there, and this killer after them, danger and risk lurked around every corner – yet right now, all Sara could think about was Grissom. And she loved it.

"Hmmm?"

"What took you so long?"

With that, they both began laughing again.


	25. FaceOff

Author's Note: Sorry about all the suspense, this chap will kind of alleviate that...ok, not really, but let it tide you over till we meet again. Thanks for the reviews :)

* * *

The car wouldn't start. Already halfway in the driver's seat, Nick saw the reason why: the spark plugs had been removed, and the battery cables had clearly been disconnected from the car battery. He saw that the spark plugs had been ground under a heavy foot to plastic and broken wires, the mess strewn out all over the floor of the passenger area. The peculiar mix of fear and anger jolted him into action. Withers had to have followed him all the way to the lake. He no longer held any such notion that he would get out of this alive.

At least he had hidden the journal well…

The knife that slammed a hair's breadth into the headrest of the driver's seat immediately confirmed his suspicions as to Owen Withers' whereabouts. If he hadn't been ducked down, examining the underside of the Tahoe's dash, he would have been shish kebab.

His body summoning reflexes he hadn't had since his teenage days, Nick crawled over to the passenger seat and hit the shotgun door, forcing it open just as Owen Withers lumbered out of the woods towards the driver's door.

"Don't even try to run, Stokes!" the other man crowed, triumph clearly in his voice as it echoed all around Nick. "Give it up. You want it easy, tell me what you found!"

Nick didn't want to play twenty questions. His mind raced furiously in thought. Obviously his pursuer had to have a vehicle of some sort for transport. There was no way Owen Withers would hightail it all the way to Lake Mead by foot alone – not even if he was Roger Bannister or Michael Johnson. If he grabbed that vehicle instead…

Now Owen Withers' voice was shockingly close behind him. Instead of being harsh, it contained a false note of assurance. Underlying that deceptive comfort was the tone of superiority that set Nick's teeth on edge.

"You've seen my aim, Stokes. You know I can put this knife in your back at forty yards. Why don't you spare us both the unnecessary energy and effort expended and let's talk like the civilized men we are?"

Nick slowly turned around. He and Withers were standing on opposite sides of the Tahoe. It was the first time he'd laid eyes on Withers since he'd obtained the knowledge that this seemingly innocuous man was a cold-blooded, ruthless murderer. The man's blond hair was spiked with gel, and he was dressed all in black – with black gloves to match. The gleaming knife in his hand was merely an extension of how lethal the killer could be. His black eyes matched the rest of him.

The killer was dead right – Nick didn't appreciate the pun – and it wasn't like he was suicidal. So long as he could stall Withers, he might get his chance when Detective Cavaliere showed up. His tongue, however, had other plans.

"Civilized men?" he questioned with every shred of disbelief he could muster. "You killed at least three people, Withers. Maybe more. You're planning to eliminate my entire team for no reason whatsoever. You call that civilized? Then what's bestial to you?"

To his surprise, Owen Withers merely laughed, but something hardened in those cold eyes. "Sacrifices, Nick. Sacrifices for the greater good."

A cold shiver ran down Nick's back. Withers sounded almost like Nigel Crane from his past.

"_Manners, Nick. Manners!" _

With an effort, he forced the rising panic down. He had no idea how to stop the next flood from overcoming him. It was taking all of his self-control to keep from screaming.

"Whose good?" he forced with all the defiance in him. "Your good?"

Owen Withers tapped a finger against his lips in exaggerated contemplation. "Well…yes. How could you tell?" He grinned, baring all of his teeth in a grimace. "You're a problematic one, Nick. Just as much as your nigger friend and your kiddy buddy. And I believe you got the numbers wrong – I've killed four people, not three – Darren Fellows, Tiffany Fellows and Yvonne Fellows…and of course, your pal, Officer Larry Jamison. The toll isn't going to end there. As soon as you give me what I want, Nick, I'll reward you with a painless death. Unlike those of Brown and Sanders."

The fury that rose up in Nick cancelled out his fear, effective immediately. His hands curled into fists, and the pain stabbed at his heart at the thoughts of all those people's lives, snuffed out effectively by a sociopathic killer. He wanted to kill Owen Withers for what he had done to a family and to a man he'd only known for an hour.

"You didn't need to kill him! He had no part in this!"

The snakelike smile widened. "I didn't kill him, Stokes. You did. You killed him when you brought him out here to die. You killed him when you ran from me – when you wouldn't stay still like a good boy – when you wouldn't give up the case – when you wouldn't give me what I want."

Nick's heart squeezed. His eyes began to sting at the words, and the innocent, enthusiastic face of Larry Jamison swam before his vision.

"What's the point of giving you what you want if you'll only kill me instead?"

Owen Withers cocked his head. "What if you give me what I want and I _don't _kill you? How's that, Stokes?"

Nick hesitated. Staring death in the face, he had to admit that it would be easier to give in, to let Owen Withers destroy the evidence so that he could survive. Then he annihilated the tempting but revolting thought all at once. It was a deal with a devil – and his name was Owen Withers. The integrity in him, he knew, would not let him forget what he had done any time soon, if ever. How did people like this live – in constant reminder that they owed their existences and their lives to their calculated decision to betray what they stood for?

"You know that it's a lie," he answered, as calmly as he could. He wondered if Withers could see his trembling fingers and the white of his face; if the hunter-predator could sense, even taste, the discomfort and the icy fear that Nick felt.

_Just get it over with. _

In the face of Nick's apparent coolness, Owen Withers' face darkened with rage. Storming forward around the hood of the car, he moved towards Nick like a thundercloud, halted only when Nick brought his gun hand up and fired without aiming. He had no need to – the point-blank shot slammed into Withers' right arm. It didn't seem to faze him much, though; he continued towards Nick at a slower, but definitely sure, pace. The huge man closed the gap between them both in seconds, and one massive hand closed around Nick's neck while the other clamped down on his wrist, the wrist holding the gun, like an iron vice.

Nick wasn't one to give up the good fight. He bore all his strength towards his right hand, willing his fingers to stay wrapped around the gun, and continued to struggle with Withers for control of the gun. In their tussle, the trigger of the weapon discharged, spewing bullets like party favors, and he had to exert all of his energy and his will to keep Withers from pointing the barrel at him. What he did not need now was an injury. The shots rang in his ears, but the battle of the two went on. Withers' hand tightened bit by bit on his throat, cutting off his air effectively even as his left hand scrabbled for release.

Owen Withers sneered as he bent Nick backwards, forcing his larger bulk and mass onto the younger, less heavily built CSI. Nick could feel the muscles in his back and legs cramping as Withers tried to force him down towards the ground. He knew that if he fell now, it would be all over.

In desperation, he utilized one of the things his father had taught him. Steeling himself for the impact, he leaned back before headbutting Withers as hard as he could. The crack of his skull against Withers' forehead made him dizzy for a second, along with the lack of air.

However, the gamble had worked. Withers reeled away from him, releasing him and the gun as he grabbed for his bleeding head with a shout of pain. White dots exploded in Nick's vision as he heaved in racking gasps, the fresh air rushing into his searing lungs. Barely conscious, he lay where he had fallen, the gun still in his hand. Mentally, a part of him was coolly deducing that there was only one shot left in the chamber. He had to make this one work.

The blood spilling from his arm gave off a coppery scent that nauseated him. As he raised his arm with a titanic effort, pointing the pistol in Withers' direction, the killer wiped the blood from his eyes, smearing it across his face. The sight was nightmarish, and the comprehension and mercilessness in Withers' eyes somehow made it worse.

The gun fired at the same time that the knife was thrown.


	26. Author's Note

**Author's Note**

To all those readers out there:

I AM SO SORRY FOR KEEPING YOU ALL HANGING!!

Totally unintentional, I promise.

It's just that after moving overseas for university I haven't gotten around so much to the story.

Today (Tuesday) I've got a ton of homework but I solemnly swear, after that is all done, I WILL UPDATE AGAIN.

So I promise you can expect another chapter – I'll try to make it as long as I can – in about 9 – 10 hours.

Thanks for being the greatest! Thanks also to Mma63 for giving me that wake-up call!!


	27. Fiddling While Rome Burns

Joseph Cavaliere hung up his cell and planted his foot on the accelerator.

Wasn't he glad that he had finally repaired things with Stokes. The case that had driven a wedge between them had led to tension and uneasiness that was not lost on him. Their good working relationship had been replaced by hostility that had been more or less mostly his fault. He remembered his impulsiveness and his pride in dealing with that kid that had killed his brother.

Sure, he had been right about the murderer's identity – but Stokes had been right as well, about remaining objective, following protocol, managing things the way they should have been.

The traffic was thinning out, thankfully. As he swerved expertly in and out of the lanes, an oily sensation of uncertainty swept over him for some odd, unknown reason. Dismissing it, he continued to plow on through the streets, making his way towards the long stretches of road that led to Lake Mead.

There were few vehicles on the road pointing towards the lake, and Cavaliere classified them easily – couples looking for some uninhibited fun with a gorgeous view, teenagers armed with beer and boom boxes, likely hitting the lake to kill animals with their hard metal and rock songs, the like. However, he caught sight of a black Buick SUV speeding hard and fast away from the lake, heading this direction towards Las Vegas.

What was the guy's hurry?

Cavaliere tried to spot the driver to obtain a clue on the man or woman's hasty and reckless driving, but the windows of the Buick were tinted black. For a second he contemplated pulling the guy over, then he paused. A fellow cop would nail the guy soon – he knew, with a sudden flash of realization, that he had to get to Stokes ASAP.

Something was very wrong here.

He moved his rearview mirror around, catching the plate number as the two cars passed each other. Scribbling it clumsily down on his pad as he floored the accelerator and spun the steering wheel, Cavaliere didn't think it held any significance. Well, at least it would make him feel better – if one of his fellow cops missed this guy, Cavaliere had him cold for a speeding ticket.

Man, what sort of cold, unfeeling cop was he to be happy over a guy getting a speeding ticket?

Tossing his notepad onto the shotgun seat of the car, Cavaliere laid both hands on the wheel and grimly focused his attention on the road beyond. As the Taurus spat up dirt and leaves from under its wheels as it approached the park, he found himself paralyzed by the same freezing doubt that had been haunting him ever since talking to Stokes.

Following the directions that he remembered taking since that first day of the 419, Cavaliere burned rubber until he reached the parking lot where Stokes had said he'd left _his _car. Sure enough, he recognized the standard-issue Tahoe that the CSIs used in their investigations and in the field.

The door was flung open, as if Stokes had been in a hurry to get to the case. Shaking his head at the CSI's enthusiasm, Cavaliere swung his Taurus into a lot near the Tahoe and got out of the car.

Had Nick Stokes forgotten Cavaliere was coming in the first place? It would be so like any of Grissom's team to get all caught up in their work and the cases until they had forgotten everything that had happened. A black-and-white was parked next to the CSI's Tahoe too, indicating that both Jamison and Stokes had to still be around. Cavaliere scoffed at himself for worrying needlessly. Both the cop and the CSI were big boys – they could definitely take care of themselves.

Fishing his notepad out of his car, Cavaliere reached for his cell at his belt and began dialing Stokes' cell with one hand while flipping to the page of his pad where he'd written the speeding guy's license plate number. Halfway through opening the pad, it slipped out of his fingers and hit the leaf-strewn ground of the parking lot.

"Damn it."

Bending his knees, Cavaliere snagged the notepad by the tips of his fingers. When he lifted his head, his eyes were tripped by the dark pools that were smeared all over the ground beside Nick's Tahoe. In this light and at this angle, he could see what he had mistaken as petrol or rainwater to be…to be…

The notepad tumbled unnoticed out of his fingers as Cavaliere lunged for his gun and radio.

* * *

Catherine couldn't keep a proper hold on her thoughts as she hurried down the corridor towards Grissom's office. Surprisingly, Grissom wasn't in it – fearful and distracted though she was, she couldn't help but admire for just a second the aquarium containing two bright metallic green beetles and a rainforest-like habitat, which rested on the top of the desk.

That took just a second.

Spinning around on her heel, she ran into something hard and solid and nearly windmilled to the floor. As she regained her footing, she realized it was the man she had been looking for.

"Grissom!"

The boyish supervisor was smiling so widely that Catherine thought for a moment she'd found the wrong man. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head to clear it before looking back up – and there was Grissom, grinning again. That smile, though, canceled out when his big brown eyes landed on her face.

"Catherine?" he questioned, sounding both wary and confused at the same time.

Catherine realized that her hands were shaking. She clenched them in an effort to make them stop, then handed the clear plastic baggie that was crumpled in her fist to Grissom.

"It was left at reception," she managed to say without her voice giving out.

Grissom latched onto the baggie and pulled it from her fingers. Lifting it to his eye level, he looked at the contents and then recoiled sharply.

Nick's name tag was the only item that rested inside the baggie. The bright white block letters stitched into the tag that had been ripped off a crime scene vest were stained deep red with blood. The fabric of the tag stank of it, just as if the tag had been deliberately dipped into the liquid.

Catherine babbled on, unable to stop herself even when she tried. "He said he was going back to the crime scene. I told him to take a detective with him, and he said that Officer Jamison was going with him. Well, even Nick's not that stupid. Then I called him again on, on the results of the broadcasts. I told him to radio Cavaliere. He said okay. That's all I heard, really."

Grissom continued to stare at the baggie in his hands as a cacophony of emotions flitted across his face that Catherine couldn't read. Then, abruptly, he turned and began running down the hall. Taken aback, Catherine sprinted to keep up with him.

"When did you get this?" Grissom called over his shoulder. There was something in his voice that Catherine classified as either anger or reproach, but she was much too panicked to take offense.

"Reception paged me just a few minutes ago," she answered, her tone distressed even to her own ears. "I went looking for you immediately."

"We're going to the crime scene," Grissom snapped, almost interrupting her train of thought and words. "Has Brass secured the scene yet?"

Right on cue, Grissom's cell shrilled unpleasantly, saving Catherine from having to answer.

"Grissom," the man replied curtly into the mouthpiece. Then the lines at his eyes and mouth went hard, his eyes turned cool, and his lips tightened.

"We'll be there," he said shortly into the phone, and hung up.

"Who was…?" Catherine began, and Grissom interrupted with his reply.

"Brass. Cavaliere just found blood pools beside Nick's car and the squad car of the officer that went with him. He says he's fanning out with several cops now through the woods."

"Is it…" Catherine started to whisper, and then she couldn't complete the question.

Grissom reached the doors of the station and held them open for her. As both forensics investigators hurried out to Grissom's Tahoe, he looked at her and something softened in his face. "You and I will go out there for the scene while Sara stays and continues with the investigation. I talked to days – Benjamin Hill said he'll help her out." One more pregnant pause, then Grissom spoke bluntly, although Catherine knew he didn't mean to.

"It's probably him. The killer. It's his style – he strikes when we least expect it."

"Do you think Nick's…" Then Catherine's voice failed her and cracked, revealing her own emotions.

She couldn't bear the thought of losing Nick. Imagining that he was gone, that he was dead, left an aching void like a black hole in her being. It was the same as imagining Warrick gone. Both of 

them were her right and left wingmen in the new shift; having one succumb to the dangers of their job was like cutting off her own arm.

Grissom's face fell for a moment, revealing the pain behind the stony, infuriated exterior he'd been projecting.

"I don't know, Catherine. I don't know."

* * *

He couldn't believe this. While he had been serenading Sara, Nick had been struggling for his life. Maybe now, he was lying dead in a ditch somewhere, a product of Grissom's carelessness and thoughtlessness and total irresponsibility.

What if Nick was dead?

Grissom was more furious at himself than scared or shocked. He was so angry that he could feel himself shaking. That powerful emotion was boiling in his veins like acid.

He didn't regret one bit having talked to Sara. He didn't.

But what if his actions had led to irreversible, irrevocable consequences? What if his hands were stained with Nick's blood because he had been blinded by love to see what was happening in front of him?

What if Nick died because of him?

* * *

For that one moment, Owen Withers had been sure that Detective Cavaliere had spotted him. He'd been prepared to be pulled over by the overzealous detective and written up for a speeding ticket. If that had happened, he wouldn't have had an explanation for being out here that wouldn't have tripped him up, and he would have had to kill the cop.

Not that he minded. It was really quite easy, and the thrill he got from it was stupendous. Why hadn't he done this sooner, instead of nesting behind so-called morals and pretentiousness?

His arm throbbed where Nicholas Stokes' bullet had hit it, and he cursed as he glanced down at the blood-soaked bandage knotted around his bicep. Another inch and the CSI would have done a lot more damage. As it was, Stokes had nicked his brachial artery so slightly that the blood hadn't spurted out all that much. He would have to thank the CSI for it later.

Glancing into the backseat of the SUV, he ran his eyes over the CSI that lay restrained and unconscious on the seats. The smell of blood in the air was refreshing, surprisingly enough. Withers had never been nauseated by it in his entire life – now he was actually feeling intoxicated.

His knife had stuck in the tip of Stokes' shoulder, just below the shoulder blade, and it had been peanuts to knock the CSI out with his superior strength and build. He'd sent Hill back to the station with Nick Stokes' tag, as a present. Later he would give his lackey more instructions.

For now, he had a date with Nick Stokes.


	28. Speak of the Devil

Author's Note: I'm pretty sure all of you guys will want to kill me after the LONG LONG WAIT. I hope I made it up to you all...I was actually slaving over studies et al, and my finals will be next week. This one is to all of you for being so patient with me! Cheers!

No, it ain't over yet. :)

* * *

The first thing Nick felt when he awoke was a ripping ache throughout his body, as if he'd been beaten all over. The effort to open his eyes was titanic, especially when agony seared through his head as the light pierced his retinas. He tried to move his hands to cover them, then realized that they were secured to the arms of the metal chair he was seated in. So were his ankles, for that matter, trussed to the two front legs of the chair.

It took him a few seconds to realize that freezing liquid – water, by the feel and taste of it – was trickling slowly down his face and front. His shoulder throbbed where the knife had hit him. Thankfully it was a flesh wound, deep but not serious. If it had hit an artery he would be dead.

Wincing against the pain, he shook his head once to clear it. Even that small effort was too much for him, and a groan tore from deep in his throat. His surroundings were dark, shadows dancing on the large space around him. The lack of furniture and the shape of the room he was in told Nick that he was likely in an empty or abandoned house somewhere.

The last thing he had remembered after shooting Owen Withers was the knife cutting his shoulder, and then the juggernaut had been there, grabbing him by the neck. A sharp pain had shocked him as Owen Withers squeezed the back of his neck, cutting off both air and blood there, and the blackness had come almost instantly.

His next thought was like a bolt from a bow as he jerked upright.

Had Owen Withers found the journal?

No, that couldn't be possible. If he had, Nick would be dead by now. He allowed a small, sad smile to come to his lips. Once Grissom and the others made it to the parking lot, they would find the journal. He had saved them and condemned Withers, at least. That was worth paying the price that Withers would make him swallow. Nick wasn't naïve enough to ever think that the sociopath would let him live, after all that he had witnessed.

"Good grief. How long do you people take to wake up?"

The candid, almost relaxed tone of Owen Withers' voice was like an oily smell in the air. Nick felt his nostrils flare, both in rage and trepidation, as he turned his head this way and that, trying to spot his captor. The man had to be standing directly behind him, and Nick hated the jolt of panic that was starting to spread through his whole being.

Much as he wanted to stay silent, Nick felt the questions burning within him. How could anyone be so inhumane? Sure, he saw death and destruction of the human spirit and form every day on a regular basis, but this was far different altogether. Owen Withers didn't just _kill, _he _enjoyed _it. He had no conscience whatsoever, from what Nick had pieced together.

How could any human being be like that?

"Let's not fool ourselves into thinking that you don't know what's going on, Nick," Owen Withers began. His voice, so pleasant in appearance and cloaking the demon within, sent a shiver of ice up Nick's spine. "You're a smart boy, and I'm positive you read the journal. So that just leaves us with one question at hand. Where is the journal?"

Nick had to swallow to keep saliva in his mouth, which was by now as dry as a desert. "What journal?"

Owen Withers answered with a powerful backhand that slammed into Nick's cheek, throwing the chair off its legs and onto the floor. Restrained to the chair as he was, Nick was helpless to stop himself from falling. As the chair upended, the back of his head slammed against the hardwood floor. There was a crack in his cheek that didn't come from hitting the ground, and he let out a strangled groan.

The killer bent over Nick and latched onto his forearms. Then he dragged the chair back up by yanking on Nick's arms, deliberately pulling on the stab wound in Nick's shoulder. The only sounds in the entire warehouse were the panting breaths of the two men and Nick's occasional choked cries as he gritted his teeth to keep from screaming out loud.

"Let's try that again, shall we?" Owen Withers said perkily. The manic gleam in his black eyes was frightening to watch. "Where is the journal?"

Nick had to struggle to muster all his rage against the fear so that he could glare at Owen Withers. He kept the images of his two families – Grissom and the team, and his parents and siblings – firmly embedded in his mind's eye.

"What journal?"

* * *

The mountain bluebird was pecking its way through the grassy fields situated on the outskirts of Las Vegas and in the direction of the Desert National Wildlife Range. Its plump white belly bobbed up and down as it fluffed its azure blue feathers, hoping to find something for its mate back at the nest. The only building for miles around was the average-sized suburban house located far off from the highways and shielded by a clump of trees.

The sudden, stifled scream of pain sent the bird in flight. As it wheeled around, seeing no imminent danger, it landed on the dusty ground next to the building that the sound had come from and hopped towards the dirt-caked windows.

"Where is the journal?"

"What…journal?"

The intrusive sounds of flesh on flesh made the mountain bluebird skittish. It hopped from one foot to the other as it nervously considered if the strange noises meant danger and harm or safety and security to its existence.

The first voice was raised in a bellow several minutes later, the raised pitch and sound decibel level prompting the bird to leave, for good.

"_Where is the journal?" _

* * *

Grissom, Sara and Catherine dove out of the Denali almost before it had stopped and were up and running towards the cluster of LVPD squad cars and police officers and detectives that swarmed like ants around the entire crime scene.

Detective Cavaliere was right in the midst of it all with Brass and Detective Vega. All three detectives' faces were grim as they conversed. Then Vega spotted the CSIs and spoke something shortly; the other two turned around to await the arrival of the CSIs.

Sara had been trying to hold herself together during the entire ride. Grissom had been morose in conversation while Catherine had kept on babbling, the other woman sharing Sara's anxiety. Out of respect, Sara hadn't told Catherine to be quiet, and neither had Grissom.

They were all worried about the same person.

Without preamble, Cavaliere began speaking. "Nick called me to tell me where to go to meet him. I was on my way when I saw a vehicle pass me – black Buick, I copied down the license plate number. It was speeding in the opposite direction away from Lake Mead." He shrugged, his eyes despondent. "I didn't think it was of any significance…"

"If it was the killer driving, you wouldn't have stood a chance," Vega interrupted, poking him in the back. "Carry on."

"I got to the scene and I thought that Nick had walked off to find a clue. I was about to call him when I saw the blood on the ground."

"Gil," Brass cut in brusquely, but the concern in his voice was more than evident. "Can I have a word with you in private?"

Grissom's mouth thinned as he turned to Sara and Catherine. Sara noted with alarm that his brows were pinched and his mouth was tight. This was getting to him, big-time. "Sara, would you go over Nick's car, please? Catherine, you can take the parking lot."

The two women obeyed, crime-scene field kits in hand as they hurried off. Sara skirted the dark pools of blood, exchanging grim looks with Catherine, before she moved to Nick's black Denali and peered inside.

The interior of the car was a mess. Plastic parts and wires were strewn all over the floor mats of the shotgun passenger area – matching up to what looked suspiciously like spark plugs, for some reason. Placing her gloved hand on the ignition, Sara tried to start the car but it wouldn't go. Her eyes flicked to the control panel and she realized that the battery cables had been disconnected from said battery. Nick wouldn't have had a chance to drive off.

Fighting the anger and hopelessness in her, Sara moved to get out of the car, placing her hand on the open door and shifting in the seat to climb out. Then she saw it – the clean gash in the headrest of the driver's seat. It fitted the length of a blade perfectly. No blood, but that didn't mean that nothing had gone on here.

A shiver ran through Sara, chilling her more than the cold of a winter day. Quickly she measured the slice and noted it down. Then she gathered up the mess of wires and plastic from the floor of the car, dropping everything into evidence bags and sealing them.

The next thing was for her to search the entire car. Maybe there was something here, there, _anywhere, _which had a clue as to Nick's whereabouts. Her efforts became almost frenzied as she tirelessly but meticulously went over every inch of the trunk, the passenger seat area, shotgun and driver seat areas. Grissom was talking heatedly with the detectives when she looked up at several different moments, and Sara noticed that he was agitated – an emotion that should not belong to Gil Grissom. Nonetheless, she was much too absorbed in her work to see it as something for great concern. They _all _were agitated and worried and on edge tonight.

Finally, on her second search of the car trunk, Sara was about to capitulate. There was nothing here at all. Her eyes burned and her head buzzed as she tried to keep from shrieking in frustration and fear. They were left in the dust, and the killer had Nick. She'd been terrified when Greg, Warrick, Vartann and yes, Sofia, had been attacked; this was altogether wholly different. Nick was at the killer's mercy and they had _nothing. _

A whimsical thought struck her, and Sara shook it off in irritation. Of all the times when she was busy, her mind had to go off wandering now. What was _wrong _with her? What reason did she have to do that? It was completely ridiculous, and she was only going crazy.

It would only take a minute – less than a minute. _Follow your instincts, _Grissom almost seemed to say in her mind. His face, smiling and relaxed, not tense and fearful like now, seemed to swim in front of her eyes like a mirage. Sara wanted to see him smile and laugh again, not frown and scowl. It frightened her beyond all reason.

_For you, then, _she thought with a sigh. Then she turned back to the trunk and pried up the panel that held the spare tire underneath.

A large rectangular leather-bound journal lay within the loop of the spare tire. The twilight from the setting sun fell across the book, making the dull brown leather gleam.

Sara felt her jaw drop.

* * *

Grissom watched as Sara and Catherine strode off. He kept his eyes on Sara, noting her cascade of wavy brown hair as it bounced around her shoulders, and the way she fitted her clothing so perfectly, as if they had been tailored for her.

Something had told him to send them both away. Brass' eyes held a quiet terror that had stopped his heart for a couple of beats. Grissom had no wish to see that mirrored in the faces of two of the most important women in his life, if he had the choice.

"There's something you have to see, Gil."

Brass' face was empty and his tone colorless; it was like he was presiding over a dirge. Grissom moved forward, his heart starting to pick up in pulse rate, as Brass pulled something in an evidence bindle out of his pocket and handed it to him.

It was a message, typed on a plain white sheet of paper in Times New Roman font, size 60 or so. The bold black letters spelled out lines that etched themselves into Grissom's heart.

**IF YOU WISH TO SEE STOKES ALIVE, YOU + SIDLE + WILLOWS WAIT OUTSIDE DESERT PALM TONIGHT 10:00. NO COPS + NO TRICKS + YOUR APPEARANCE, OR STOKES' HEAD FRAMED AND HUNG AT LVPD!**

"He's trying to kill you all at one attempt," Vega hissed.

Brass blew out a breath, looking suddenly a decade older. "More than that, Sam – we moved Warrick, Sofia, Greg and Vartann back to Desert Palm. That's within a five-minute drive from the station – where Warrick and Greg currently are. The killer's not worried about Vartann, hopefully, but Sofia is still at Desert Palm. There was a complication with her windpipe."

"Is she all right?" Grissom instantly questioned, although Sara's image flashed into his mind's eye. Then it was followed by images of the rest of his team.

The killer was one step ahead of them. The problem was, how was he – how could he be?

He whirled on Brass. "That information was supposed to be kept only to the LVPD. Police officers, detectives, CSIs – this means that we have a spy in the LVPD. Unless the killer is in the LVPD himself."

Brass seemed to register that, but he spoke urgently and quickly. "You're right, Grissom – but the point here is that you and the others are in danger. The killer means to destroy _all _of you. What makes you think that giving yourself and the others up will save all of you when the killer will get you all in one fell swoop?"

The sounds of running feet slapping the asphalt came to his ears, and he turned with the detectives to find Sara approaching them fast. She was waving a brown leather book in her rubber-gloved hand and her eyes were alight with realization, albeit also with disgust and horror. She swallowed once, her face pale, and held up the journal when she reached them.

"Nicky left us a major clue," she stated.


	29. Author's Note Again

A/N:

Yes, I'm well aware that most of you readers want to slaughter me right about now. But I hope that you can understand that I'm not NOT going to continue, it's just that it's going to be on hold for a little while longer.

But not that long. The Sunday after Halloween, check back to see if the night when demons walk the earth has inspired me more to write another chapter. I can safely say, during the Thanksgiving break, I will be VERY VERY close to, if not actually, finishing this story.

Thanks for being so patient and for nagging me! I'm sorry for the eternal wait and hope you guys enjoy reading what I write. My next fanfic will be more regularly updated, I promise.

Have a scary Halloween!


	30. Cry Havoc

Greg gingerly poked at the burn under the thick bandage that was wrapped around the entire length of his forearm. It hurt like the devil, but he was lucky considering all other aspects.

"Stop that."

The deep voice interrupted his train of thought, and Greg glanced up, startled, as Warrick froze him with a pointed stare from one green eye. The other CSI was on the floor of the break room, leaning back against the wall, his injured leg stretched out in front of him. His eyes sank back into their half-lidded position when Greg looked over, and he appeared to be almost asleep.

"Stop what?"

"You keep doing that, you'll just make yourself jumpier than you already are," the African-American pointed out reasonably. "Not to mention the unnecessary pain."

Greg sighed and reluctantly obeyed. He wandered over to the break room fridge and pushed the door open to snatch a Snapple from within the ice-cold depths. Thank goodness Grissom didn't have an experiment in there, or everything would be obviously inedible. Boredom was eating holes in him, and he could feel a volatile mix of irritation, exhaustion and anxiety percolating in him.

"Why won't they tell us anything?" he complained. "All we know is that everyone is on the cases and that we just have to be good boys and not freak out."

Warrick didn't even open his eyes, this time. After a long while, during which Greg thought the other man had fallen asleep, he finally answered Greg. "Think about the time when you last had a real break, Greggo. You're getting it now. They've got it under control."

"The killer's _after _them." Annoyed that he wasn't getting his point across, Greg pushed. "What if they're in trouble?"

This time, both of Warrick's eyes flew open, and he leveled a steady gaze at Greg, tinged with frustration, but not furious reproach. "Gris and Brass said they've got the whole of the LVPD lined up with them, Sanders. They'll be fine – it's us that are probably in more danger than they."

************************************************************************************************************************************************

Owen Withers finally ceased fire after twenty-five minutes of beating the crap out of Nick Stokes. Surveying the unconscious man's battered and bloodied form, he frowned as he contemplated the situation. Stokes hadn't given in, and now he would have to clean up the place. Damn it, why weren't things ever easy? They had had been thus far.

Releasing his knife from its sheath at his belt, he slid it under the zip ties that restrained Stokes to the chair and slashed them neatly, before he moved leisurely behind the chair and tipped up the back, unceremoniously depositing the CSI onto the hard concrete floor. Stokes dropped limply to the floor and lay unmoving.

He would just leave the CSI there – it wasn't like he could do a thing to stop Owen Withers. Now he lifted the cell phone from his pocket up to his ear and hit the speed dial.

Benjamin Hill's sulky tone came to his ears. "It's me," he muttered. "You took him and now I have to clean up your mess for you."

"Shut up, Hill," the Devil snapped, his lower lip automatically curling in disgust and revulsion. "I hope you're not so stupid as to be talking out in the open. Where are you now?"

The sound of Hill's grinding teeth preceded his response. "At the station," he finally replied sullenly. "It's an uproar in here. I don't see how –"

"Do it. Now," the Devil ordered, before hanging up on his lackey. As far as he was concerned, Hill was starting to outlive his usefulness. The partnership was breaking down – not that it had ever been a real partnership in the first place, but the Devil didn't care. Blackmail – what a marvelous blessing to the world. It was a dog-eat-dog world, and he was just doling out the lessons that everyone had to learn, sooner or later.

Someone had to do it, after all.

***********************************************************************************************************************************************

Warrick sighed and tried to shut his ears to Greg's prattling. He knew that Greg was only openly expressing the emotions that Warrick himself attempted to suppress, but he really wanted to sleep. His eyelids were drooping shut, the painkillers and the long hours taking their toll on an already tired individual.

The door to the break room suddenly banged open, and an LVPD officer – Pitts, Warrick was sure his name was – and Benjamin Hill charged into the break room, their eyes pinning Greg and Warrick like stuck flies. The out of the blue entry sent adrenaline flooding into Warrick's system, and he and Greg whipped towards the two new arrivals, question marks clearly in their body language and expressions.

"The Devil is coming for you two," Hill burst out, looking panicky under the circumstances, all. His usually glowering countenance was pale and dots of perspiration stood out on his forehead and temples. He wore a bulletproof vest over his suit. "We have to move you. Now."

Greg immediately sprang to Warrick's side as Officer Pitts reached the black man and started hoisting him up by the elbows.

Warrick remembered looking up into the officer's face when it happened. It was one of those ordinary faces, average-looking, with earnest deep brown eyes and clean-shaven chin. Then a muffled grunt escaped Pitts' wide lips, and his brown eyes went wide, glazing over instantly. At the same moment, his grip on Warrick's arms slackened, and he went down onto Warrick, forcing the latter back onto the floor on his bad leg. The man was dead weight, and the pain blinded Warrick to whatever had happened for more than a few seconds.

When the red haze had somewhat dissipated, Warrick found himself looking into the ice blue eyes of Benjamin Hill. The man had a nasty grin on his face, and he held a serrated knife to the hollow of Greg's neck, his arm pinning the young man's limbs to his side as he kept Greg in front of him like a human shield, almost. Greg's face was drained of all color, and his eyes showed their whites as they revolved around, from Warrick to the knife below at his jugular, to the man standing right behind him.

"Wh –" Warrick tried again. The saliva in his mouth had completely dried up. "What are you doing?" His brain could no longer contemplate anything – his thoughts were whirring around in his head like fruit in a blender, becoming incomprehensible and irrelevant.

Benjamin Hill's smile was feral, frightening in its bared teeth and his maniacal eyes. Blood filled his cheeks, turning his face red as he stared down at Warrick.

"What's it look like I'm doing?" he sniped. "I'm getting rid of you two."

Greg had gone limp, almost passive, with fright and discouragement. His lips had gone bloodless along with the rest of his face, and he wasn't moving a muscle. Warrick feared that the younger man was going into shock, and he wasn't sure that _he _himself wasn't, either.

"Get over there," Hill snarled, gesturing with his head towards the far wall of the break room, behind the large table and out of sight of the door. "We can't have anyone seeing you and coming to help before your time is up."

Warrick could hardly move. He had no strength in his limbs. The movement of the knife at Greg's throat was barely enough to spur him on to obey. Using his hands, he clumsily started to drag himself across the floor, but as the officer's dead weight restrained him, he could only pull himself a few feet before stopping.

"Move it!" Hill growled, his voice getting louder. "Move, Brown, or you die now!"

Warrick couldn't even shift another inch. He stared up stupidly at the man. Finally the question that had been buzzing in his head floated to the surface.

"Why?" was all that could emerge. He clamped his lips and teeth down, just missing his tongue, to keep from babbling unintelligibly.

Hill's glare darkened. Warrick thought that he would be incinerated if looks could kill.

Warrick caught Greg's eye. The young man looked disoriented and dazed, but he met Warrick's brief gaze. Warrick saw hopelessness in that single look. He shook his head subtly.

_Don't give up, Greggo. _

In that thought, he gained some of his own lucidity back. His head cleared momentarily for him to scramble mentally for any loophole, anything at all that would help him stay alive for just a little longer. It was the fight or flight instinct, he thought. Rather, at this moment, it was a bitter mixture of both.

"You're going to kill us," he pointed out, fighting to sound and stay reasonable. His voice sounded almost normal, even mild, to himself. "What was it, Hill? You're related to him? You liked his power? Money? Blackmail?"

He would have continued if Hill hadn't flinched visibly at the last word. Immediately Warrick severed his flow of words and tensed, waiting for the inevitable gunshot. It was stayed – for now. Somehow, he couldn't take his eyes from that swaying gun barrel.

"That son of a b----," Hill burst out, clearly agitated more than he would have liked to display, but he continued without, possibly, even realizing it. "He thought he could use that crime to screw me over, but he was just scared that he would get caught. So he tried to use it against me instead. But once this is over, he's done. He told me so."

Warrick almost couldn't resist the urge to roll his eyes despite the pain and fear that swamped him. For a team supervisor, this guy took the cake in naiveté or foolishness.

Hill suddenly snapped out of his funk. Without preamble, he shifted the knife, which had been resting in the hollow of Greg's throat, to the jugular vein where it pulsed in Greg's neck. Greg let out a near-inaudible whimper as the knife bit into his neck, skin-deep, and blood began seeping slowly from the cut. Warrick had no doubt that if pushed, Hill would see to it that the blade sliced deeper than that. He couldn't let that happen.

"Hey," he began instinctively, holding up his hands slowly and carefully. "Don't."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a shadow just outside the break room, but he didn't dare look for real. He kept his eyes on Hill, and his heart jumped at the paralyzing thought that the individual outside the break room was the Devil himself, or one of his accomplices.

Warrick knew that even with that in mind, he had to take the chance, or he and Greg would be dead.

"Don't tell me what to do, nigger!" Hill spat viciously. "You think you and your kind are superior to us, but in actual fact you are nothing more than the dirt beneath our feet. You waste valuable resources and money when your lot should be rotting six feet under – if you're lucky!"

The knife shifted, all eight inches of sharpened steel, and Warrick pinned his eyes to it like a fly to paper. The insults cut deep, but the important thing was that the knife now was away from Greg. In fact, as Hill continued to spew obscenities and voice his supremacist tendencies, the knife got further and further away from the young CSI and pointed towards Warrick.

"…You niggers are like fleas. We don't need you, and your presence just contaminates us. We can't wipe the taint off. All we can do – all we _should _do – is to squash you like the disgusting pests you are. Nigger slags!"

Warrick had the overpowering urge to tell him to shut up. The shadow had moved into the doorway of the break room. Warrick inched his fingers down to his coat as he suddenly became very aware of his own body language. His legs were spread on the floor, his good leg bent halfway at the knee, his bad one lying straight out at an angle that was comfortable enough for him to keep from screaming. His hands were behind him and to the sides, bracing him from falling flat onto the floor. The right one was less visible from where Hill was. Now he allowed his hand to creep towards the holster tucked away behind his coat at his right side.

Detectives Alex Vartann and Sam Vega were both framed in the doorway, 9mm standard-issue Glocks in their hands pointing directly at Hill's back. For a heartbeat their eyes met Warrick's, and something passed through that gaze that Warrick almost thought slowed time and motion. He was aware of both detectives calling out to Hill to put his hands up, of the huge perp spinning around and taking the knife away from Greg. At the same time, Warrick shouted the young CSI's name.

On cue, Greg sagged in Hill's firm hold, surprising the man, who released him involuntarily. As Hill drew back the knife, ready to throw it at the detectives, grabbing for Greg at the same time, Warrick's fingers clamped down on the smooth, firm grip of his pistol as he released the cover of his holster and drew the gun. Greg hit the floor, covering his head with his arms as he crawled out of harm's way, and Warrick fired at the same moment that the detectives peppered Hill's head with bullets. The man's head erupted in a shower of blood and brain and gossamer tissue.

At the same moment, the knife whistled through the air and gashed Vega's arm as it passed, very nearly nicking the muscle and bone.

The only sounds that remained after that were the heavy breathing of the detectives and CSIs left alive – left standing – as well as the thump of the body hitting the ground.

************************************************************************************************************************************************

Pain. Intense, all-encompassing pain targeting every cell of his body.

He barely managed to crack a swollen eye open and winced at the agony that followed that tiny, singular gesture. When he swallowed, he could taste the coppery tang of blood – and a lot of it. He just managed to keep from coughing or moaning aloud – some instinct deep down warned him not to make a noise.

For a moment, he wasn't sure of anything at all – he didn't know what had happened to him, or what had awakened him, or even his own name. When everything returned in a flood, he winced and tried to focus his thoughts – a difficult task, seeing how his head felt like it was in two halves on the floor, and his brain was dismantled down to the little gray cells.

Then he realized the sound that had roused him from his unconsciousness. Owen Withers was screaming at something that sounded like a blaring television set. It did not make for pleasant hearing – the expletives that he was hearing were colorful and detailed, and growing in volume and intensity by the moment.

"No, you piece of s--- – can't you see those two detectives behind you? You f---ing b------! How many times did I tell you to _look behind you and be mindful of your surroundings?_"

The cell phone rang on the table near him, and he tensed as Owen Withers leapt up and thundered towards him – no, towards the table – to grab the phone. Closing his eyes again, he had to force himself to go limp and relax.

If Withers found out he was awake now, he would incur the wrath of the man with certainty.

"Hello?" The impatient, angered tone of Owen Withers had to have been intimidating to the caller. Suddenly his voice calmed to a neutral tone without difficulty. "Why, hello, Mrs. Jamison."

The cop that Withers had killed. Had he been assigned to the day shift detail? He went cold at the thought that the innocent widow was talking unwittingly to her husband's murderer.

Withers listened for a while before speaking with great condescension so veiled that it was both obvious and subtle at the same time. "My dear, I haven't seen the good officer in a while. I'll talk to the other detectives and police officers and see if they've glimpsed him. When I have news, I'll let you know. I promise."

The call completed, Withers turned back to the television and shrieked a final expletive before hurling the phone at the television set. It missed, hitting the boxes stacked in the corner, before skidding back under the table with the force of the blow.

Without looking back, Withers turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

The phone lay within six feet of Nick.


	31. Shun the Devil

A/N: Sorry, false alarm. I had to edit the chapter. BUT I'm working on the next chapter! :]

* * *

Grissom could feel the pressure boiling up in him like bubbling lava. Knots the size of boulders had formed in his back, and he had a headache churning between his temples.

Life had turned upside down. Benjamin Hill was dead, killed when trying to eliminate Greg and Warrick. Nick was still missing. The LVPD had no idea how to get to Owen Withers now, and it wasn't like they could ask Hill for help. Grissom didn't grudge Vartann and Vega their kill, though – his two CSIs would be dead without their pulling the trigger. Still, all things considered, they were unable now to retrieve Nick – and in a safe, whole condition.

Sam Vega was sitting on the floor of the break room, talking to the sheriff while he was being bandaged up. Grissom was stunned to realize Hill's proficiency with knives; Withers was already suspected to be monstrous with a blade, but his lackey too? It boggled the mind and stopped the heart; Grissom had no idea that he could be so terrified for the young CSI, but now he lived constantly in cold sweat that someone would come across the violated body of Nick Stokes. He knew he was supposed to have a plan, to be the brains of the CSI team and get Nick back somehow, but his once-sharp mind was now dulled with worry and fear. Meanwhile, he couldn't help thinking of Withers' demand for himself, Catherine and Sara.

One thing he was certain of – if they disappeared into the desert, they were never coming back. Their corpses would be found in a hole somewhere, decaying and misshapen.

Maybe he was losing his touch. Maybe the team didn't deserve to have someone as incompetent as him for their supervisor.

_Now, now, _he suddenly imagined Nick Stokes in his head. _You're beginning to sound like the voice of Ecklie, Grissom. Don't wish that on us. _

Grissom barked a laugh to himself as he turned to survey the remainder of his team in the conference room. Warrick and Greg were giving their statements, both looking like they'd been through the wringer for days, and Sara and Catherine were discussing with Vartann and Vega about what they'd witnessed. Sofia was there, too, poring over the little evidence they had on the table. The sheriff and undersheriff had both headed out to the front of the station to deal with the press; Grissom wished them good luck. The media sharks would be up in arms about the whole 'good cop gone bad' stories, and the account of the kidnapped CSI and multiple murder attempts on the members of law enforcement. The corner of Grissom's lips curled in contempt. The shallowness of the media never failed to amaze him, and not in a good way.

The clock was rapidly ticking. Grissom glanced at it and involuntarily shivered. They had only three more hours left to formulate a plan – if there was one to be had. The way his day was going, Grissom had his very strong doubts. The feeling of doom accompanying him was undeniable.

"Coffee?" a soft murmur came at his side. He turned to find Sara Sidle there, a tiny smile playing on her lips, a steaming mug offered in her hands. Her eyes were dark with concern for Nick, for Grissom himself, for them all; yet trust was also infused into the mix. "Greg surrendered part of his Blue Hawaiian stash. I promised him I'd pay him back."

Grissom grasped the mug and gave her a small, soft smile in return. Then he turned abruptly and moved to the table, grasping the pages of Yvonne's diary with his gloved fingers and unwittingly pushing Sofia out of the way.

He'd gone over the diary more times than he could remember, yet he couldn't find anything useful except answers to the past crimes. He needed answers to the present dilemmas, where to find Nick, how to get rid of a psychotic murderer with a vendetta – or maybe two or three or four. Owen Withers had no loved one – or rather, loved one that was still alive and that he hadn't slaughtered or condemned to death. He was wholly without compassion and mercy, and he seemed to revel in killing. Certainly the type that tortured and murdered small animals in his childhood, and now had moved to human beings. He was the best kind of sociopath there was, the sort that could slip into a crowd and blend in like a chameleon. His ability in killing was his pride and joy. But what if it was also his Achilles' heel?

He had killed Yvonne Taylor because she'd wanted to leave him and reconcile with her husband, and because she didn't approve of his little hobby of CSI-hunting. The woman had been the only one he loved, but because of her seeming betrayal, he'd turned on her, murdered her and her whole family. A man like that was hard to beat – whatever love he'd once possessed had died with his lover's 'betrayal'. He had no shreds of that famous human conscience left. So what _did _he have that they could attack and shred?

Sipping the coffee, appreciating Greg's gushing description about his fabulous java, Grissom felt his mind work harder, the gears shifting faster and more smoothly, the cogs and wheels better oiled with the stimulation of caffeine.

He had a plan.

Opening his mouth to call the others over, Grissom was interrupted by the familiar ringtone of his cell phone.

* * *

Nick wasn't in pain now. He was beyond pain.

He grasped the cell phone, trying to listen out for Withers through the blood that dripped down his head and trickled into his ears. His head wound was worse than he realized, and his thoughts were fuzzy.

Well aware that he would pay dearly for his daring attempt, he flipped the cover of the cell phone open with fingers streaked bloody from the open knife wounds on his arms. Through the fog in his brain, he recalled a phone number from memory and pressed it into the keypad.

"Grissom," came the heartwarming voice that Nick recognized instantly.

"Gris," he muttered into the mouthpiece of the cell phone, hearing static ravage the reception. Or maybe it was just his head, trying to connect synapses together so that he could think clearly and calmly. It wasn't working.

"_Nick!_" Grissom's voice leaped momentarily with a thrill of excitement and anxiety and pent-up fear. He lowered it quickly to a whisper, as if sensing that Nick needed him to be as quiet as he could. "Where are you, Nicky? Where's Owen Withers?"

"He's somewhere in…another room. I think I'm in a house – white walls, no furniture, dust in the air." He swallowed through the blood in his throat. "I smell pine nearby. Sun's coming…through the windows, trees shading another window, to…to the north, I think." His windpipe tightened momentarily. That description was too generic. It wasn't enough.

Suddenly a distant call from outside hit Nick's ears. A throaty rumble of sorts, sounding for several seconds before extinguishing on the wind, was followed by a few snorts, lessened in magnitude by the distance. A heartbeat later, those animal sounds were accompanied by a guttural 'baaaaaaaaaa' that went on repeatedly for half a minute or so. Nick wasn't entirely sure, and he dutifully passed that information to Grissom. Maybe it was a sheep, he didn't know, and he didn't care. He had given up hope of being found alive – all he wanted the others to do was catch Withers before he killed anyone else.

"Good, Nicky, good," Grissom's voice encouraged him. "We're coming for you, Nicky, I promise. We'll be there soon."

He felt his heart sink, even in his battered condition. "You're not…complying with him. He'll kill you all. You can't!"

Suddenly, Withers' voice boomed out from the adjoining room. Despite himself, Nick almost jumped, and stifled a cry at the fire that snaked through his entire body. He was hurt more badly than he realized, and his captor was coming back.

"Got to go," he slurred, and hung up before Grissom said anything more. He flung the phone back under the table and crawled back to his spot. With luck, Withers wouldn't see that Nick had moved his position and suspect something. Then, to his horror, he spotted the thin trail of blood he'd left on the dusty graying carpet when he'd grabbed the phone.

* * *

Grissom stared at the phone for all of three seconds when Nick hastily disconnected.

His young CSI was in worse shape than he'd hoped. Nick had been choking on blood, and the pauses between replies and comments had been too long. He wouldn't have been surprised if Nick had a concussion, and if Owen Withers had beaten him to within an inch of his life.

His mind frantically worked on the few clues Nick had been able to provide. Pine trees weren't exactly common in Las Vegas, and Nick had to be in an abandoned house near a coniferous forest to be able to smell pine in the air. The house he was being held in was located probably southward of said forest, not just abandoned but also in a deserted location where no one could hear Nick or witness Withers' unorthodox and criminal dealings. But the animal calls – what were they?

He practically ran from the room to his office, Catherine, Sara, Greg and Warrick following hot on his heels. Sofia, Brass and the detectives trailed him as well, but he ignored everyone, heading to his library to grab a book from his massive stocked collection of encyclopedias and files. CSIs and detectives alike scattered out of his path as he slammed the thick dictionary-sized book down on his desk and flipped through it quickly, not even taking the time to sit down.

Right now, time was of the essence.

His mind shifted as different, new thoughts replaced and joined the old. Finally he had his answer – the bighorn sheep had been calling, and Nick had heard the sounds of a ram communicating with his ewe. Connecting those insights with his former deductions, Grissom came up rapidly with the conclusion. Nick was being held in a house not far from the Desert National Wildlife Range, where the coniferous forests there held a variety of pines that included the white fir, bristlecone pines, and Ponderosa pines. The Range was to the north; the house on the outskirts of Vegas. It didn't take a genius to realize that was the perfect spot for a hideaway.

Brass elbowed his way through the group just as Grissom announced Nick's location.

"What are you suggesting, Gil?" he questioned, his tone and words laconic.

Grissom glanced at the clock. They had only two and a half more hours till the deadline imposed by Withers. They couldn't drive all the way out to the Range without Withers realizing that he'd been had – he would most likely be early to Desert Palm, to see if Grissom had complied with his demands. If anything, the three of them had to be present at the hospital. They could not be followed, so that meant that Brass and the others had to drive out to the Range using a different route, and stay in hiding until it was time to move. That would leave Grissom, Catherine and Sara unprotected, but Grissom didn't have the concern that Withers would kill them just yet, or that the murderer would suspect an ambush at his own hideout. He laid out his plan for the others to hear, and then turned to Sara and Catherine.

The two women, younger and older, met his eyes with the same trusting look in their gazes. Sara's dark brown hair cascaded over her shoulders and framed her face, which was full of determination and iron will, though Grissom could feel the underlying fear. Similarly, Catherine's expression was hard and strong, although Grissom sensed more anger from her than actual fear. If she was afraid, she was doing a fantastic job of hiding it, or it would only come later.

"Let's go," he remarked without joviality in his voice. He hid the sudden flare of hope and optimism he felt momentarily. If the plan worked, every one of his family would get out alive.

If it didn't…


	32. A Death the Devil's Won?

He was hovering on the edge of unconsciousness when the Devil finally stomped outside to his car and took off. It wasn't till he dimly heard the engine revving in the distance that he smiled to himself, wincing as the motion pulled his bleeding lips away from his teeth.

Knowing that the blood trail would give him away but that his captor couldn't know that he'd called for help, he'd taken the only way out. Dragging himself back to his original position, he'd used the tips of his fingers to push the phone further under the table until it was more than an arm's distance away. As Withers had stormed into the room that was his crypt, he'd feigned crawling towards the phone, stretching his arm out as if wanting to grasp the phone. The short burst of synapses caused by hearing Grissom's familiar, concerned voice had guided him to erase the call he'd made from the lists in the phone before his final scene of playacting to protect his family and friends.

Naturally, Withers had reacted as predicted, launching into a tirade of violence that was terrifying, if he had had any more adrenaline left in his body to set his heart racing. Instead, he simply fell where he was pummeled, going limp as a doll as the Devil took his rage out on him. Distantly he recalled Withers stomping down on his outstretched arm once the Devil had assessed the situation, breaking his left radius in three places. Then the man had used both fists and feet in a brutal combination, and it was only because he'd twisted his face as subtly as he could away from Withers that he hadn't died. Yet. He had no doubt it would be soon.

Even as he shifted, he couldn't feel the crippling pain that he'd been left with – fractured ribs, bruised spleen, assaulted kidneys and groin, sprained ankle, his broken arm, and significant damage to his body from Withers' blows. Even now, he was cataloging the evidence – when he was about to snuff it. Grimly he smiled once more, the pain numbing his face. He supposed that was a blessing, a small act of mercy from God. His mind wandered on that thought to his feelings of being spiritually forsaken when he'd been sexually assaulted by that babysitter at the age of nine, but even then he couldn't feel anger or betrayal or malice. His life was draining away, and he knew it.

His wandering thoughts turned to the members of the team. His one regret was not to lay eyes on and interact with his family and friends for the last time, if only just to say goodbye. He didn't have the strength or health, and he knew that shortly after Withers would ensure that he wouldn't have life. But would the others be safe? Would Nick's sacrifice be in vain or succeed?

His thoughts seemed to slow, as if the pain had paralyzed him bit by bit. A black fog filled his head, the promise of sleep overwhelming the pain and his dying will. His head dropped back to the floor, and he knew no more.


	33. Lamb to the Slaughter

A/N: I sincerely apologize for the long, long wait between the ending and the rest of the story. I've been really busy. However, due to the fact that I have to leave for a really long time and also to the persistence of my favorite and best fan, Mma63 and said fan's support and encouragement, I decided to conclude the story instead of leaving it hanging. If you want to spam and tell me what a loser/jerk I was for not updating earlier, I'm sorry you think that way. I wasn't putting my feet up and having a champagne party about it. There's no point in telling me what a jerk I was because (a) I don't much like that (b) I was KIND of busy (c) I haven't been writing anything at all whatsoever. To all my fans who stayed faithful and encouraging, especially Mma63, you're the best, and it's because of you guys that I finished this. One more chapter that will be uploaded in a little bit tonight. Thanks you guys.

"Wake up, asshole."

The voice, rough, harsh and demanding, pulled Nick away from the light that he was heading towards. He knew that at the end of the tunnel, the light he saw, represented the end of pain and the healing bliss he needed right now. That he wanted right now.

But whoever was talking to him had other plans.

There was an impact in his arm, the sense of something flooding his veins, and then his whole world jerked abruptly, blurring in motion as he felt the sensation of being yanked roughly back from that blessed light. His vision turned into molten black and spun, and Nick fell back into darkness.

The sound of breaking glass shattered the imposed silence.

"You son of a – "

"Be very careful, Ms. Willows," the silky voice that he'd come to know and fear crooned above Nick. "I have the power to kill him right now. Don't I, Stokes?"

He cleared his throat, swallowing blood, trying to answer, and suddenly agony twisted in his arm – or what had once been his arm. A scream filled the air. It was only when the pressure on his limb was released that he realized he was the one screaming. No, not just him – Catherine and Sara. Even Grissom was yelling at Owen Withers, trying to get him to stop hurting him.

Hurting him? He wondered vaguely. Who? It didn't feel like his body was whole enough to actually belong to a real person.

He cracked his swollen eyes open and looked around, barely managing to concentrate keeping his gaze on what was going on. He was lying on the floor on his side, unrestrained but for a rope that was knotted around his neck, the other end tied to a hook suspended from the ceiling. Shards of glass and a broken needle were all that remained of the syringe next to him. Catherine, Sara and Grissom were trussed to chairs, Grissom seated on the exact same chair that Nick had formerly occupied. He had to close his eyes at the sight of the blood spatter on the metal – all of it his. Ironically, he was the expert when it came to that very same subject.

Owen Withers was talking to Nick. He couldn't comprehend fully what the man was raging about.

His fist tightened on a handful of her hair. Catherine winced sharply but mustered all her courage to glare at the monster, the traitor that had sworn to protect and serve just like they all had.

"Don't worry about Nicholas Stokes," Owen said calmly. "You're next on my list."

"Thrilled," Catherine spat at him.

He smirked, the expression spreading across his face in a grim parody of a real, happy smile. It reminded Catherine of a Glasgow smile, or that belonging to the beaming Cheshire cat. She fought the urge to throw up, forced down the bile that was steadily incinerating her throat. She'd had the same reaction when she'd seen Nick for the first time, spotted the handsome young face resembling more of the interior of an abattoir than anything else. But she didn't throw up. She had to be strong for Nick. For all of them.

"So you take us all the way out here for what?" she threw back in his obnoxious face. She, Grissom and Sara had shown up at the hospital as expected, as _ordered_, and waited like sheep ready to be gutted. When Withers had arrived, the car doors had been flung open, and he'd blindfolded all of them and tied them up before driving off. Even with the gravel hitting the undercarriage of the car, the loud chips, bangs, whistles and beeps from the Strip, and the roars and honking of other vehicles, she'd taken note of every turn and stop of the car until they'd been forced out and into this shack by the Devil. And he _was _the Devil – no one could kill like this, mercilessly and horrifically, and not be a demon from the uttermost parts of hell.

"You're not as bright as I thought, Catherine Willows," he said calmly, his mask of good-natured, handsome civility sliding back ever-so-smoothly across his face. "Obviously I'm here to kill you all. I'll be done with Stokes there in a bit. He's dying from blood loss – he'll be around when I'm finished with Gil Grissom, but shortly afterwards he'll expire. That'll give me enough time with you and Ms. Sidle. Once my business with you is complete, I'll return to Las Vegas. I'll remain uncaught long enough to kill Warrick Brown and Greg Sanders. And if I am caught, I'll be able to take out many, many police officers before I'm finally arrested." Another thin, triumphant smile flickered over his countenance. "Who knows? Maybe I won't even be caught. No one can snare the Devil."

_And you've lost your marbles, _Catherine thought, but a moment of fear made her body weak. "You'll never get away with it." Right now, her only concern was for Nicky. If he didn't get medical attention soon… They'd been lucky that Withers still wanted Nick alive, because without the adrenaline that Withers had injected Nicky with, he would be stone-cold dead right now. As it was, he'd been literally pulled back from death's door.

"Don't tell me what I can get away with or not, Catherine," he scolded, much like a man teasing his lover. She fought another urge to be sick. Her only consolation before he killed her would be that she'd done it in his lap or on his shoes – right now she preferred to be alive. "I don't want to hear anything else from you, or I'm gagging your mouth. And I do so want the use of it… later." His grin was lecherous, and Catherine imagined kicking him in the crotch. That would wipe the smile off his face. "For now, though, I'll settle for Gil Grissom's dead body."

His hand was hidden behind his back. Now he brought it out, with a sick, sadistic gleam in his eye. Catherine's heart rocked right into her mouth, but her throat was too dry to let out another sound.

"Heparin, Grissom," Withers sneered. "All I need to do is inject it into you, cut you wherever I like, and you'll actually bleed to death faster than young Mr. Stokes here." He picked up a blade from the tabletop that was stained with blood. "This was the knife that I used on Nick Stokes. Don't you find it fitting that it'll be the one I use for you as well?"

Grissom's glare could have cut steel.

Without preamble, Withers reached out, tied a length of rubber tubing around Grissom's arm after rolling up his sleeve, and tapped it with ridiculous efficiency. A vein stood out in the CSI's arm, and Withers lowered the needle of a syringe to the vein.

Sara gasped, her face going deathly white.

Catherine watched numbly as the needle inserted into the vein, and Withers pushed the plunger further and further in. She closed her eyes.

There was a massive crash, and for a second Catherine thought the roof had fallen in, or a wall. Her eyes flew open, and her startled line of sight fell onto a whole group of S.W. A.T. officers, heavily armored and helmeted, brandishing massive rifles with definite artillery, surrounding her and the others. The barrels of their guns pointed straight at Withers, laser sights dancing on his torso, head and neck. The intrusion of dark uniforms and weaponry was a jarring one, and one that could not have been more welcome. Their voices, amplified through microphones, blended into a cacophony, yet the guns sent a message louder than their orders.

Owen Withers paused, as if he'd expected them all along. The only way Catherine knew he'd been surprised was the roiling fury in his dark eyes. She didn't like the tiny leer that blossomed across his face, as he grabbed the knife from the table, and swung it towards Grissom's neck…

The reports of the assault rifles were thunderous in the confines of the cabin. As the impact of each bullet thudded into Withers' body like so much meat, it drove him away, step by step, from Grissom and the other CSIs. Then it fell onto the floor like the dead weight it was.

However, Catherine found herself staring at the corpse. The expression on the face was frozen into a singular rictus grin, a gaping maw of naked ugliness – and yet a knowing, sneering display of twisted sadism.

As the S.W.A.T. officers untied her and the others, as the paramedics rolled Nicky and Grissom away while insisting that Catherine and Sara follow them as well, she obeyed mechanically. Sara was completely fine with following Grissom, and Catherine allowed herself to be steered to the helicopters that were whirring outside the cabin. How Withers hadn't heard all the noise was beyond her. She would get a better explanation from Jim Brass, who was directing the chaos.

It was over, wasn't it? At least, if Nicky would be all right. She banished the thought. He _had _to be fine. They'd won. The Devil was dead.

But when she closed her eyes, all she could see was Owen Withers' face, teeth bared, Nicky's blood smeared on it, his eyes boring into her with that nightmare look, that sick, evil gleam of triumph.


	34. Die Another Day

A/N: Ending. Thanks for being good, fantastic, wonderful, encouraging fans. It's been great for what it was worth. Sorry again for being such a terrible, temperamental writer.

"Is he gonna be okay?"

Grissom looked up at the sound of Greg's voice. The usual perkiness was toned down, in light of all that had just happened about twenty-four hours ago. His arm was bandaged but it looked better, even now. Beside him, Warrick leaned on a cane that Doc Robbins had loaned him, a query on his attractive face and in his green eyes.

"Yeah," he answered his protégé, pushing away from the window that looked into Nick's hospital room. The young man inside slept on, his face darkened with bruises, but at least now actually recognizable. "Multiple contusions, bruises and quite a bit of internal bleeding, cracked ribs, broken left arm – but he's a trooper. He'll pull through. He's already stabilized, and the doctors say he's healing nicely."

"What about the others?" Warrick pointed out.

"Sofia and Vartann are going to be fine," Grissom assured him.

He himself had been hospitalized for a couple of hours and injected with protamine sulfate to combat the effect of the heparin on his system. During that time, he'd talked to Brass. Some instinct had made the police captain deploy a helicopter with a SWAT team instead of using land vehicles, along with a medical chopper. When the cops had investigated the area, along with the days shift of remaining CSIs, they'd found land mines planted along the winding road leading to the cabin. Withers had obviously programmed them to detonate if there was any pressure from invading law enforcement.

"What was the deal with Benjamin Hill?" Warrick pressed.

Grissom noted the shadow that flew quickly over Greg's young face. Inwardly, he frowned. "Hill accumulated lots of gambling debts and was actually collecting bribes from gang members for drug running. Owen Withers had plenty of dirt on him by the time he was discovered, and Hill was in no position to deny Withers what he wanted – a willing partnership, or not so willing."

Grissom spotted Sara poking her head out of the adjoining corridor up ahead. He stepped away from the window. "Excuse me for a second."

"Can we go in and say hi to him?" Greg asked tentatively.

"Sure," Grissom smiled, but it was slightly strained with a shade of concern. "He's pretty doped up on painkillers. But you can go in and tell him what a great job he did – if he hadn't contacted us, we would all have died there because we wouldn't have known where to go."

Greg grinned proudly. "I have to tell him my mom got me the latest PlayStation for my birthday. He totally could borrow it." He opened the door and motioned Warrick in with a shake of his head.

"Why, Greg," Grissom heard Warrick exclaim in a whisper of mock disbelief as the door shut, "what brought on this sudden magnanimity?"

Shaking his head with a tiny smirk, Grissom strode up the hallway, taking pains to keep his pace unhurried, but secretly, his stomach was doing flip-flops. Technically, he knew it was only nervousness that was causing his palms to perspire, his heart and pulse rates to accelerate, and his smile to break out on his face, but it was the good kind of nervous. At least, that was what Sara would have said.

"Hey stranger," the calm, lilting voice greeted him.

She was looking good – a cool mint green top and dark jeans that flattered her slim figure and dark hair. When she smiled at him, leaning into his hug, her adorable gap-toothed grin seemed to light up the day. She smelled of shampoo and body wash, along with that unique scent that belonged to her and her alone. In other words, she smelled wonderful. He closed his eyes, imagining that there wasn't anybody in the entire world but them both.

"How's Nicky?" she finally asked, her chipper mood dampening a little.

He let his smile remain to soothe her nerves. "He's stable. He's going to have a tough time of it, but he'll pull through."

Sara slid her arms against his sides, letting her hands trap him in her embrace as she leaned her head against his chest. He let his chin rest on her hair as he shut his eyes again and let the daydream consume him. Even in his imaginings, he remembered what it was like to almost lose her to the Devil. The thought had been the stuff of his nightmares ever since that fateful day, only hours ago.

He wasn't going to lose her to anything. Or anyone. Not if he could help it.

Catherine pulled the blanket up to Lindsay's chin. She'd just read her daughter a bedtime story, and now she was watching her greatest treasure fall asleep. Thanks to the day off that Ecklie had awarded the whole graveyard shift of CSIs, she had had the time to be with Lindsay – dinner and a movie, shopping for a couple of hours, and finally bedtime. Now her daughter slept on, contented with her time with her mother. Catherine could say she felt the same and more.

But she couldn't sleep. Not yet. She wasn't exhausted enough.

She couldn't stop thinking about Owen Withers' rampage, the bloody swath he'd cut through the LVPD and the lives he'd taken and touched – for the worst. Nicky was going to make it, but he was going to be in a lot of pain for a while. Greg and Warrick and Sofia and Vartann were at least healing up fast. Sara and Grissom had been untouched, as was Catherine herself.

Or was she?

It seemed a lifetime away that they'd first answered their individual calls to different crime scenes, several of which had been created by Owen Withers. She knew that it had been just between twenty-four and forty-eight hours ago.

This time they'd all been lucky. They'd come out of it alive. Would there be other moments, other scenarios, where at least one of them wouldn't make it? She couldn't fathom it. The horror of a time like that which would hopefully never come boiled in the pit of her stomach, burned like acid.

She stayed right beside Lindsay, watching the soft blond hair fanned out on the pillow, and the small body rising up and back down with every sweet breath.

She didn't know if it would last. She could still function, could still do her job with objectivity and professionalism. She still loved what she did for a living.

She didn't know if it would last. But every time she closed her eyes at night, she still saw Owen Withers' eyes glaring at her in his death throes. She could still feel the aura of evil portrayed in that one, final moment of his.

The Devil was dead. She'd seen his carcass riddled with bullets. Like the name he'd picked for himself, however, she wasn't sure if his influence would die all that soon with him. For her, nothing would be soon enough.


End file.
